


Persistence: Part 3

by JaneOfCakes



Series: Persistence [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst because it's them, Fluff because they're cute idiots, Jim is even worse, John Whump, Kidnapped John, M/M, Mycroft isn't quite as bad, Post-Episode: s02e02 The Hounds of Baskerville, Pre-Reichenbach, Rape/Non-con Elements, Smut because why not
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-04
Updated: 2018-08-21
Packaged: 2019-06-21 13:04:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 49,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15558327
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JaneOfCakes/pseuds/JaneOfCakes
Summary: John wakes up in his new home.Sherlock and Greg work tirelessly to find him.Sherlock has a talk with Mycroft.There is a bit of forced contact in this chapter, but it is restricted to kissing and palming.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up in his new home.  
> Sherlock and Greg work tirelessly to find him.  
> Sherlock has a talk with Mycroft.
> 
> There is a bit of forced contact in this chapter, but it is restricted to kissing and palming.

John Watson opens his eyes slowly as the gray haze of chloroform relinquishes its control over his consciousness. He tries to lift his arms to rub at his temples and is greeted by restraints, and searing pain around his wrists. He raises his head from a soft surface to look down at his body. John squints against the sleep in his eyes and sees he is bound hand and foot to a bed with very tight wire. Any serious attempt to escape or struggle is sure to result in broken skin. He lets his head fall back on the pillows beneath it and sighs.

_ Fuck fuck fuck. _

He looks around again and takes stock of the room. It is an average-sized bedroom with light blue walls, pleasantly decorated. The bed’s headboard is up against one wall with a chest of drawers on the opposite, along with a closed door that is either the exit or a closet. A small table is to the left of the bed. The wall to his right has a built-in fireplace and another door in its corner. Rather sparse as bedrooms go, but it isn’t actually being lived in, is it? It’s just a cell to keep him in until Moriarty is caught. Moriarty. Now that he has John, he will want Sherlock to give himself up in some kind of ludicrous exchange. The detective better bloody well not do it, not even consider turning himself over the bastard.

“Ah, I was hoping you’d be awake.”

John’s head snaps to his right to see James Moriarty slipping in the door by the fireplace and then clicking it shut. He’s wearing a pleasant, if not psychotic smile. John’s expression hardens as they lock eyes.

“Welcome,” Moriarty raises his arms with flourish. “Welcome to your new home! Do you like it? Are you comfortable?”

“Whatever it is, he won’t do it.”

“Are you thirsty?” he asks, stepping closer to the bed. “You’ve been asleep for hours.”

“He’ll find me and then he will end you.”

Moriarty laughs. He is standing very close to the bed and looks at John with an odd expression that fills him with a deep sense of unease.

“No, he won’t, love,” Moriarty replies gleefully. John’s brow creases at the term of endearment. “I have you right under his nose. And I mean **right** under. He’ll never find you. Besides...” He moves closer and puts his hand low on John’s thigh, giving it a hard squeeze. John shoots a quick look in that direction and then meets Moriarty’s eyes again. “This isn’t about him.”

His hand slowly creeps up to the middle of John’s thigh, taking its time as it glides over tense muscles that tighten all the more as his fingers touch them through John’s jeans. A sly, predatory smile spreads across Moriarty’s lips as he leans forward a little.

“This is about you and me, John,” he whispers. His hand stops at the top of John’s thigh, dangerously close to his crotch. “I’m much more interested in what  **you** will do for me. And, with me.”

John’s lips part in shock that he cannot disguise. His dark blue eyes are wide. He licks at his suddenly dry lips and immediately wishes he had not when those black, penetrating eyes lower to watch.

Keeping his right hand firmly in place on John’s thigh, Moriarty raises his left to cup John’s cheek. He flinches at the touch, but his expression hardens again. Snapped from his initial consternation, John tries to shake off Moriarty’s hand and fails. Not allowing himself to panic, he quickly accepts the situation and starts working out how to deal with it. John fixes the man with a cold stare. Moriarty merely tilts his head and smiles fondly at the doctor. After a moment, his jaw drops into a rather startled grin and a bark of laughter bursts from his lips.

“He never told you!” A louder, even more startled laugh echoes through the room. Moriarty’s hands fly from John’s body to cover his own mouth. “I can’t believe he never told you.”

John remains unmoved and continues to glare at his enemy, even when Moriarty cups his cheek again and sits on the bed next to him.

“I want you, John. Since long before I killed you, which incidentally, I did much too quickly,” he adds, frowning and shaking his head in regret. “Oh, sure, it served its purpose at the time. I wanted to make Sherlock suffer. I still do. But if I’d had more time to plan… Oh, honey, you and I could have run away together long ago.”

He ghosts his thumb over John’s lips and smiles again. John twitches away.

“Oh, the things we could’ve gotten up to,” he sucks in the air through his teeth, “and will get up to.”

“Like breaking your fucking neck,” John suggests in a harsh tone. Moriarty laughs quietly.

“Not at all what I had in mind, but I’m not opposed to a little choking, love.” The man bites his lower lip and looks at John with heat in his eyes. John swallows hard and tamps down a rising nausea. “I’ve wanted you since that day I drugged you in your flat and waited for your sweet detective to get home. When I got hold of those muscles lifting you onto the sofa, I couldn’t believe what you were hiding under those awful jumpers. It’s absolutely criminal.”

At the mention of his jumper, John takes note of his own clothing for the first time since he woke. He is not, incidentally, wearing the red jumper he had on in Molly’s lab. He is, however, still wearing everything else, excluding his shoes and socks. He almost wonders for a second why Moriarty would take them, but is pulled sharply from his thoughts at the sudden weight of Moriarty’s right hand cupping the front of his jeans. John jerks his arms and legs out of reflex, and inhales quickly at the pain from the wires biting into his bare wrists and ankles. He grits his teeth and eases them back to the mattress. By god, if it wasn’t for that wire, he’d have choked the life out the asshole by now.

John looks at him with a fierce glare, the bridge of his nose wrinkling in a deep scowl.

“Back. The fuck. Off.”

If Moriarty is at all unsettled by the low rumble of rage in John’s voice, he doesn’t show it.

“If you want to escape, be my guest,” he smirks. “I’d like to see you open the door with your hands lying on the floor. Or even get your legs free without them because that’s exactly what will happen. You mark my words, love. I take bondage...very seriously.”

He licks his lips slowly, lecherously. He presses down on John firmly and strokes with his fingertips. John lets out a long, angry breath and growls in pent-up fury.

“I don’t know what you want from me…”

“But I’ve already told you what I want. Sherlock is right. You are very smart, but you never listen.” John bristles at the supposed familiarity with Sherlock and then pulls his own head back against the pillows as Moriarty looms over him. He leans in closer and speaks very seriously. “I want you, John, in every way imaginable.”

In a sudden whirl of movement, Moriarty removes both hands from John’s person and waves them about in an exaggerated fashion. He alters his voice to a lower, rather comical-sounding register and affects a perfectly idiotic expression.

“I want to fuck you and love you and I will call you George and keep you for my very own.” He stops and grins devilishly at John. When he speaks again, his voice has returned to normal. “Well, not the George part, obviously. But you,” he narrows his eyes. “You are a dark horse, John Watson. I never would’ve imagined myself wanting someone like you, but here we are and now that you’re mine, I will have you. In every way I desire.” Moriarty rolls his eyes playfully and continues in his typical jovial-evil demeanor. “On the subject of names, why don’t you call me Jim? Surnames are so formal and we are going to know one another verrrrrry intimately verrrrrrry soon.” He raises his eyebrows lasciviously and purrs. “Very soon.”

“Fuck off.”

Moriarty tuts at John and stands. He walks around to the other side of the bed and leans in closer than he has before. John wants to press his head further into the pillow. He wants his whole body to melt through the mattress to the floor so he is as far away from Moriarty as possible. He wants it all between them, every layer. Box spring, mattress, sheets, duvet, all of it blocking Moriarty from touching him again. But, John won’t. He will not give this bastard the satisfaction of knowing that he is at all unsettled by any of what he has just learned. Or that a small part of his brain is now desperately asking why Sherlock didn’t tell him. Why?

“John, you have to give me something. A little cooperation. Hm? We’re going to be together for a long time. Until death do we part, as they say,” he giggles and John’s furious eyes widen. “You can’t go around calling me Moriarty all the time. Although, it does have a fantastic ring to it, don’t you think? Such a flare of drama. Not nearly so dull as Holmes or Watson.”

Moriarty moves in closer. John is not at all comfortable with their proximity, but he’ll be damned if he lets the other man know it. He holds his ground, his face a mask of stony anger. Their eyes are locked once again. Moriarty smiles. John’s frown deepens. Moriarty slowly seeps further into his personal space. His scent drifts into John’s nose as he inhales and exhales. His breath mingles with John’s in what little space there is between them. John already believes he will still see those glittering dark eyes when his own are closed. Those soulless black eyes now so close they bore deeply into him like a blade. John refuses to look away. Show no weakness. Never give in.  _ Why didn’t you tell me? _

“What do you say, love?” the man smiles in feigned sheepishness with a wolf’s teeth. “Call me Jim.”

John’s mouth forms into a tight line. He gives Moriarty a shallow nod.

“All right,” he clips. “Fuck. Off. Jim.”

“All in good time, love. All in good time.”

Jim lurches in, closing the gap between them, and trapping John in a hard kiss. The doctor gasps in surprise. His mouth opens just enough for Jim to take advantage, sucking John’s lower lip in between his own. He holds on for an unbearably long moment for John, but one that is not nearly long enough for Jim. John pulls his head back and shifts it to the side as far as he can, putting as much space between them as possible and breaking their lips apart.

“Oh, no, no, John. You can’t get away from me that easily.” 

He dips in for another kiss when a tune quietly starts to play, halting him immediately. His eyes close slowly in irritation and he tilts his head to the side deliberately as if cracking his neck. John has a sudden sense of deja vu - explosives on the cement by the pool - Sherlock holding a gun on Jim.

Jim opens his eyes as he pulls back and straightens up.

“Sorry, love. That’s me. And I have to take it.” He pulls his mobile out of his pocket and looks at it with brows furrowed.

“Irene Adler?”

Jim’s eyes meet John’s, glittering again with a look of acute satisfaction. A wide smile inches across his face and he shakes his head slowly.

“Mm-mm. Oh, John, you  **are** good. Sherlock has  **no** idea,” he licks his lips to taste the doctor once more as he presses his mobile to answer. “I’ll be back soon, love.” 

Jim puts the phone to his ear and walks out of the room. John lets out a long breath of relief as soon as the door closes and tries to get his heart rate back to normal. His head falls back on the pillows and he stares at the ceiling, trying to think of a way out of this, and praying to god that Sherlock finds him before it’s too late.

Sherlock.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he finds himself asking quietly into the empty room. He shakes his head to clear it almost as soon as the last word leaves his mouth. It doesn’t matter. It wouldn’t have changed anything that’s happened or that will happen. John closes his eyes and inhales deeply. Somehow he has to prepare himself for what Jim will most assuredly do so it doesn’t destroy him, and he must devise a way to escape. Or die trying.

***

Greg Lestrade trudges up the seventeen steps to 221B, wishing he had better news for Sherlock. Mrs. Hudson was kind enough to let him in the building and he repaid her with bleakness. At least the detective won’t have to hide his tears until he can put a door between himself and the DI. Greg’s feet pause momentarily on the stairs as he tries to imagine what he would even do in that situation.

He blinks and shakes his head to assure himself that it will not happen and continues up the stairs. Greg doesn’t bother to knock on the door to the flat before entering. Sherlock expects him and would probably just berate him for wasting time. Greg walks down the hall to the dining area, which has become an extension of Sherlock’s desk. The detective himself is at the table with his laptop. His furious typing ceases as he tilts his head up to look at the DI. He can tell immediately that there is virtually nothing to report as soon as his eyes have lifted and leaps from his seat in anger. He stands before Greg in two steps, glowering at him.

“Why did you bother to come here when you obviously know nothing?”

“Because we have these,” Greg answers, producing a small plastic bag containing two dark fibers. Sherlock snatches the bag from his hand and looks at it closely.

“They’re from Moriarty’s coat. He snagged it on the corner of a table in the lab.”

“How do you know it was his coat?” Sherlock’s brow is cocked, his piercing eyes glaring. 

“Once we have the test results it could help lead us right to him,” Greg continues, trying to avoid the detective’s question.

“Without the coat, you cannot be certain. How do you know they are from his coat?” he repeats.

“Molly saw it happen,” Greg sighs.

“Damn it, Lestrade!” Sherlock rages, throwing the bag to the floor. “I told you not to involve her!”

“She’s an eye witness to the kidnapping, Sherlock! I can’t just remove her from the case all-together.”

The detective seems to grow two inches as he stretches to his full height. He eyes the DI in fury. Greg holds his ground, but feels about a foot shorter than normal.

“ **She** will be testing the fibers?”

Greg’s shoulders visibly sag and he sighs again. That, he could have asked someone else to do if he was at all interested in honoring Sherlock’s wishes, which he decidedly is not. Molly may have helped Moriarty, but she was as much a victim as anyone else involved. Unfortunately, Sherlock does not agree and he stomps about the room, ranting. Although, he grows still suddenly in mid-stride and casts a pair of murderous eyes on the DI, who nearly shivers under the death glare. He silently nears Greg, walking silently and slowly like a wild cat stalking its prey.

“I detest Molly Hooper,” he grumbles fiercely. “John would be safe at my side without her pathetic weaknesses.”

“She was trying to protect you and John.” 

“She was stupid!”

“She doesn’t know Moriarty the way you do. She didn’t think he would come back and do this. She thought she was getting rid of him.”

“If she was not so easily manipulated…”

“He said he would torture you! Both of you! Tell me, Sherlock, just how far would you go to protect John?”

“Molly Hooper does not love John, or me.”

“No. No, she doesn’t, but how many people do you think she has in her life?”

The detective’s mouth clamps shut and his jaw muscles flex as he grinds his teeth, conceding the point with his silence. Greg stands straighter again and is just about to speak when Sherlock presses on.

“Those fibers tell us nothing,” he declares vehemently.

“Steady on. Molly said...”

“They are from my coat.”

“What? But Molly saw…”

“She was panicked and made yet another mistake. My coat caught on a counter in her lab only last week. When she found the fibers, she assumed with little evidence.”

Wishing he could contradict the obnoxious detective, Greg huffs in frustration, knowing he is more than likely right.

“So we still have nothing,” Greg runs a hand through his hair. “Damn it.”

“You put far too much faith in that simpering idiot.”

“Now, look, Molly has helped you since day one. She has come through every time and never once refused you, even though you’re generally a total prick,” he continues without a break, even as Sherlock narrows his eyes and scowls. “She deserves your consideration, even when she makes a mistake.”

“Not when it comes to John,” the detective mutters through clenched teeth.

“She deserves a damn sight more than this.”

“She deserves nothing!” Sherlock bites off the words. “John is being tortured as we speak because Molly Hooper helped that psychopath disappear. I will  **never** forget it. And I will never forgive it.”

Sherlock storms from the room and down the hall to the flat’s front door. He grabs his coat and scarf and pulls them on violently. Turning back to see Greg rushing into the hall after him, he calls down.

“I’m going out. Do be useful and lock up when you leave.”

He slams the door. Greg stands alone in the hall, shoulders sagging. He sighs in defeat and resolves, once again to work day and night until John is found. He walks down the hall and out of the flat. His first step is to tell Molly about the fibers.

***

Sherlock walks silently through a wide hall. The walls are lined with doors. A nurse’s station marks each corridor that intersects with another hall. A nurse notices him as he walks by and smiles. He nods as he opens one of the doors and steps inside.

The overhead lights are off. The room is dimly lit with a single fluorescent wall light. Sherlock shuts out the sounds of the hall with the close of the door. The only noises are now the beeping of a heart monitor and the faint hum of a ventilator. Sherlock stands by the door looking at his brother. He steps forward slowly to stand by the bed and study the man’s pale face. Mycroft Holmes remains in critical condition and has never regained consciousness.

“Pointless,” Sherlock stares straight ahead. “You can’t hear me. I don’t know why I’m here. You are only slightly more useful in this state. You still won’t listen, but you certainly won’t interrupt me.” Sherlock bites his lip and shifts on his feet uncomfortably. His gaze lowers until it rests on the older man, who looks uncharacteristically small in the bed. “Moriarty is alive. But you know that. That’s what you wanted to discuss.”

Sherlock studies his brother’s pale face. It’s a face he sees often, but seldom analyzes for anything other than deception. There are more lines around the eyes than he remembers, and thinner around the jaw. Sherlock’s eyes drift from his face, featureless in sleep, and rove over the myriad of tubes connected to his body. Eventually, they find their way back to that familiar face that looks so much older now. When did enough years pass to cause such a change?

“He’s taken John. You knew he would. You were the decoy without even knowing it. He knew you would call me and that I would go straight to your office.” Silence. “It’s been two days. Anthea has gone through your usual channels and found nothing. Lestrade has not rested, but still nothing. My homeless network…” his voice fades and he shakes his head. “Nothing concrete. Only dead ends.”

Sherlock looks away and grabs a nearby chair, dragging it toward the bed and sitting. He looks at his own hands and then focuses on his brother again. His eyes shine with tears. Another thing he would never let Mycroft see if he were awake. 

“I can’t…” his deep voice catches in his throat and a tear rolls down his cheek. He bites his upper lip and rests a hand on the bed gently, very close to his brother’s lifeless fingers. “Had I listened to you and gone into hiding, all of this might have been avoided.”

Sherlock lets out a shaking breath and then he utters something he would never admit to anyone, anywhere...except, perhaps, to a certain ex-army doctor.

“I don’t know what to do. He won’t kill John. He’ll never kill John. He wants him alive. Whatever happens to John, I am to blame,” he swallows hard and another tear drips down. His next words come all in a rush, filling the silent room with despair. “He will torture him until he breaks, or until he’s dead. I’ll never see him again. I cannot allow that to happen.” 

Sherlock sits up straighter and chases away his hopelessness with renewed determination. He opens his mouth to speak, but the door suddenly opens. Sherlock’s face goes red with fury as he meets the eyes of the familiar woman. Molly Hooper stops dead, nearly dropping the cup of coffee in her hand. Sherlock leaps up.

“What. Are you doing here?” he demands coldly.

“Uh…I just…I came to…”

“There is  **nothing** to say. It is your fault. The torture and pain you hoped to spare John is exactly what he is living right now.” The detective takes a step closer and fixes her with an icy glare. Molly keeps herself from shrinking back into the shadow of his looming form. “Stay away from this case.” They stare at one another in silence. “Get. Out.”

Molly quickly backs out and closes the door. Sherlock instantly deflates and collapses in the chair, completely exhausted. Without looking at his brother, he rests his arms on the bed and his head on his folded arms. He has barely eaten and not slept at all over the last two days, every ounce of energy spent on this case. The most important case of his life. He cannot stop, cannot rest until he finds John Watson. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There it is, my friends. Part 3 begins! I thought I'd reward your patience with a nice, long chapter.
> 
> A couple of notes I want to mention:  
> Turns out this part isn't divided into chapters either. Just like Part 2. You'll notice I specified 10 chapters, but that is a guess. It could be more. Maybe less. We'll see together.
> 
> I also want to draw your attention to the tags. They have changed a bit and I want everyone to be prepared. In addition to the tags, I will be writing non-con warnings into the chapter summaries. I will also identify sections of chapters that can be omitted if it is a trigger to anyone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ****This chapter contains non-consensual sex. If that is your trigger, skip down to the end of the first section (divided by asterisks). I put them in bold and added a note so they are easier to find.****
> 
>  
> 
> Jim is a heartless bastard.
> 
> Sherlock gets a phone call.

John’s eyes snap open again when a third lubricated finger joins the other two. He grits his teeth and swallows the pained groan in his throat. He will not give Jim the satisfaction of making a sound. Instead, he glares daggers at the man and growls a command.

“Get off of me.”

“Mmm, you’re stretching a bit, love, but you have to relax or this is never going to work. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“Then stop,” John demands through clenched teeth. “Stop now, you bastard.”

“Oh, no, no, no,” he replies playfully. “I’ve dreamed of this for too long to stop now.”

John’s wrists and ankles are wet with blood from straining against his bonds. He bites his lip and squeezes his eyes shut and tries to think of something else, anything else, until this is over. Jim curls his middle finger and brushes John’s prostate. His eyes fly open in agony and he cannot stop the shattering cry that tears from his throat. What would typically give John pleasure only increases his pain. His mouth is open wide and his back arches, his limbs pulling at the wires that hold them down and bury deep in his skin. Thousands of tiny pins stab low into his belly and then rip through his body.

When John awoke in the morning, it was to find himself naked from the waist down. He knew immediately that he had been drugged while he was sleeping and there was little question what Jim had in mind upon his return. Frankly, John was surprised he had not yet found himself in this situation. He had been Jim’s captive for two days since he woke the first time, based on meals and Jim’s continuous visits to chat and flirt. He also typically told John when it was late and turned off the lights to create an atmosphere for sleep. He left only the dim lamp on the chest of drawers turned on at these times. 

Up until now, John had only to endure kisses and touches, but he had always known more was on its way. After Jim left him the night before, John had tried to get a hand or foot free from the wiring. He thought if he could just slip one of them through he might be able to free himself, but to no avail. All he achieved were bloodied limbs and frustration.

Jim’s finger touches John firmly, causing the pins to give way to a searing pain that crashes through his body once, twice. John clenches his teeth and lets out a breath of agony before he can stop himself.

“Stop. Stop!”

John squeezes his eyes shut hard. He will kick himself later for the desperation in his voice, but all he can think about now is Jim and his fingers and how much he wants him to stop. Just stop.

Suddenly the fingers disappear. Everything around John is quiet. He waits, afraid to open his eyes. For a fleeting moment, he dares to hope that Jim has left. And then the real horror begins. 

John feels smooth flesh brush against his thighs toward his buttocks and flinches at the touch. Then Jim presses in slowly. John’s eyes fly open to see Jim’s black eyes over him. He feels sick. He can’t contain a yelp as the head passes through the tight ring of muscle that grows tighter by the second. He stares into those eyes with undisguised panic.

“No! NO! I don’t want this!” he shouts, barely aware of what he’s saying.

“But  **I** want it, love,” Jim coos. “Shh. Hush, love, just relax. You’ll learn to love it.”

Hands are on John’s shoulders. More pressure.

“NO!  **NO!** Get off!” John screams. “GET OFF!”

John wrenches his arms and legs and screams in pain, the control over his emotions fraying by the second. Jim presses all the way in and he stops for a moment. His jaw drops in pleasure and his eyes go blank for just a second before focusing again. John gasps and then clenches his mouth shut as Jim sets a steady pace. In spite of the preparations and lubrication, John feels like he is on fire. Pain spreads through his body until every bit of him aches around the sharp pain in his body’s center. He breaks into a cold sweat and struggles frantically. Jim shushes him again.

“Relax. I’ve got you, love.”

John wants to look away, to close his eyes, but can’t tear his eyes away from Jim’s. The pace picks up and soon Jim is pounding into John with a punishing rhythm. John’s eyes finally slip shut.  _ Oh, god. He’s ripping me apart. _ Jim’s movements become more erratic until he cries out and comes. John nearly vomits. 

The man collapses onto John’s body. Both are panting and exhausted. John fights to keep the moisture in his eyes from trickling down his cheeks. Jim begins to kiss and lick his way along John’s jaw. John turns his head violently from side to side until the man stops. With a hand on each cheek, Jim forces him still and looks into John’s shimmering dark blues fondly.

“You’re mine now, John,” he whispers in a gentle voice. “I want you and I always get what I want.”

Inhaling quickly and regaining some composure, John glares back. His whole body radiates with more hate than he ever thought possible.

“I  **hate** you,” he chokes out, clenching his teeth. “God, I hate you.”

“No worries, my love,” Jim kisses along his jaw again, “I won’t hold that against you. And, in time, you’ll learn to love me. To love this. Every minute of it.”

John grimaces and then scowls defiantly. Jim smiles and licks John’s neck once more, even as John pulls away, before rising and climbing off the bed. He walks to the chest of drawers and cleans himself off with a flannel. When he turns back to John, he holds a syringe in one hand.

“I hate to do this again, love, but I’ll never get you dressed if you’re awake.”

John struggles uselessly as Jim nears the bed, grabs his arm, and jabs in the needle. John’s vision immediately starts to blur.

“Sweet dreams, love.”

***** (If you skipped the first section, start here.)**

When John opens his eyes, his body aches. He has no idea how much time has passed and can’t get any bearings as he looks around the windowless room. He looks down at himself and breathes a sigh of relief. He is fully clothed again. Still no socks, shoes or jumper, but everything else is there, as well as bandages over his wrists and ankles.

Before he has a chance to assess the injuries he sustained, the door swings open wide. John pivots his head to see Jim walk in with a tray of food.

“Hello again,” Jim says cheerfully. His voice sounds ten times louder than it is in the quiet room and John winces, suddenly realizing his head is throbbing. “I thought you’d be awake by now. I brought you dinner.”

He walks to the table and sets down the tray. Turning to John, the plate in one hand and a spoon in the other, Jim comes up close beside the bed and smiles warmly.

“It’s your favorite. Shepherd’s pie.”

John stares, stone-faced as Jim dips the spoon and offers the food.

“Open wide.”

“Fuck you, you bastard.”

“Now, John, you really should have some dinner. You haven’t eaten anything since…”

“You kidnapped me. You’re damn right and I’ll be damned if I take a thing from you.”

“We need to keep your strength up, love. I have big plans for you.“

“No,” John is spitting fire. He’d sooner die than cooperate with this monster.

Jim looks at him for a moment with a cold stare, sizing him up yet again. He has done it each time John has refused food to determine whether or not to try harder. He did manage to force some down John’s throat at lunch the day before, but not enough for it to have made an impact and John was very emphatic in his protestation. John glares right back, making it perfectly clear that Jim cannot intimidate him. He may have been overwhelmed and weak during the assault, but it will not happen again. John will not let it happen again. Jim narrows his eyes at the determined man.

“Very well,” he puts the plate down and picks up a glass of water with a straw. “At least have a drink?”

John gives a stiff nod and drinks most of it. No sense in dehydrating AND starving himself. He hopes the hunger strike will be enough to work on Jim’s resolve to keep him here. Jim places the glass back on the table and turns back to John, bending down close and kissing John’s thigh. Then his hand, which John twitches away from the man’s lips as best he can.

“It won’t work, love,” he remarks as he straightens up again. “I won’t let you go.”

“Then I guess you’ll watch me die,” John sneers, a cruel smile on his face.

“No, love, you’ll eat one way or another. Don’t you worry,” Jim chuckles. “And I’ll  **make** you love me.”

“Like hell you will.”

“Oh, I can be very persuasive.”

“If you think fucking me is going to wear me down, you’re wrong. Dead wrong.”

Jim gives him an evil smile and traces his fingers up and down John’s arm.

“You’d be surprised what a few weeks can do, love,” he meets John’s eyes. “You’ll be begging for it.”

“I’ll die first.”

Jim fixes him with a cold, black stare and leans in close to his face. His breath hovers warm over John’s mouth as Jim speaks in a quiet, menacing voice.

“You. Are. Mine. You’ll love everything I tell you to love and you’ll forget all about Sherlock Holmes.”

John’s anger spikes at the mention of Sherlock’s name. Overtaken by white hot fury, he shouts in Jim’s face.

“I WILL NEVER LOVE YOU! I LOVE SHERLOCK!”

Suddenly Jim’s hands are wrapped around John’s throat, squeezing as hard as he can. His eyes are blazing and look almost red to John’s blurring vision.

“You forget him!” Jim shouts as he shakes John violently. “You belong to me!”

John tries to choke out words, but nothing comes. He can’t breathe. His throat feels tight, so tight that nothing can get through. Blackness creeps in from the edges of his vision. He is straining so hard against the wire his wrists and ankles would surely be cut half through if not for the bandages around them. He struggles to breathe and manages a quick one. Just enough to utter a few words that might placate the mad beast on top of him.

“I…Jim…I…” It’s all John can manage before his eyes roll back and close. Darkness overtakes him.

***

John Watson has been missing for four days. 

The morning of the fifth day finds Sherlock asleep at his desk with his head cushioned by countless papers and printouts of areas in London that he has found to be places Moriarty has used in the past. It is the first time he has slept since John disappeared and is the result of total exhaustion, both mental and physical. His every thought and breath has been focused on finding his doctor. If the man himself was with Sherlock now, he would be shouting and preparing a stew that he would make the detective eat. But he isn’t and it’s tearing Sherlock apart from the inside out.

Sherlock is awakened from his fitful slumber by the sound of his front door opening. He lifts his head and sits up blinking the sleep out of his eyes. He swats at a post-it note that falls from his cheek as Greg walks into the room with two cups of coffee. The detective notes that he looks as bad as Sherlock feels. He nods his thanks and takes the cup the DI offers him.

“We raided five of the locations you gave me last night. Found a couple of blokes at two of them. Donovan’s questioning them now, but I don’t expect to get much. The other locations were empty.”

“Go over documents with a fine-toothed comb. Bring laptops to me. Better yet, bring it all to me. There must be some clue as to where John is. Something they left behind,” Sherlock squints into his coffee and mumbles to himself. “Moriarty wouldn’t take him anywhere he’s been before. It has to be someplace new.”

“We did find something at the last one,” Greg remarks grimly. Sherlock meets his eyes expectantly. “John’s jumper and shoes. They’re in the lab for analysis.”

“I’ll do it.” Sherlock puts down the coffee and brushes by Greg, heading for the door.

“You can’t do everything, Sherlock. When did you last sleep?”

“Irrelevant,” the detective quips. Greg crosses his arms, affecting a stern expression. Sherlock watches him with serious eyes. “When did you?”

“Fine,” Greg sighs. “You can go if you like, but Molly is already testing them.”

Sherlock stops in the doorway and turns to face Greg. His face is flushed with anger, his voice a low rumble that nearly drowns out the sound of his mobile sounding.

“I told you to keep her off the case.”

“Oh, fuck what you told me, Sherlock!” Greg blurts angrily. “She’s the best. If anyone helps us find John, it’s her.”

“ **She** is the reason John was kidnapped!” Sherlock shouts.

“She was manipulated!”

“She was stupid!”

“She’s as much a victim as he is!“

Sherlock rushes for the DI and gets right up in his face. Greg takes a step back in surprise and the detective bites out his next words vehemently.

“NO, she is  **not** !” his voice is low and cold and spiked with genuine hate. Greg hopes to god it’s a reflection of his feelings for Moriarty and not Molly Hooper. He swallows hard and looks into the detective’s hard eyes. “If you had  **any idea** what is happening to John right now, you would  **never** say that.”

They stare at one another in silence. Sherlock’s words seem to echo off the walls and fill the room with their force. He knows something. Greg lifts a brow minutely. Sherlock knows something and it’s telling him exactly what Moriarty wants with John, and it...it scares him. Greg searches his eyes as he reflects upon the last four days. He had expected a phone call long before now demanding an exchange. He had always assumed Moriarty wanted to use John to get his hands on Sherlock. Until now.  

“Answer your goddamn phone!” is all Greg can think to say, desperately needing to process what he has just learned and what it means. 

Sherlock exhales a disgusted huff as he produces his mobile and looks at it. The number is blocked, which means it can only be one person. Sherlock’s brows arch to meet his hairline as he takes the call.

“Where is he?”

Greg nearly chokes on his coffee and pulls his own mobile, speed-dialing Donovan’s number. Sherlock mouths ‘trace it’ and Greg nods brusquely. This is the moment the DI has been waiting for. 

“On it,” he whispers. “Keep him on as long as you can.”

“Hello, Sherrrrlock,” Moriarty’s voice chirps through the phone. “How are you? Getting along without your man Friday?”

The voice is his typical sing-song, but Sherlock can hear a well-disguised tone of irritation in it and feels an odd sense of satisfaction at knowing that John is pissing him off. He can hear tension and anger, despite the villain’s attempts to hide them. And now Moriarty is calling him, but why?

“I could have told you John would never cooperate,” he replies smugly, opting to irritate the man even more with his nonchalance. “If you had only asked first. Very sloppy for someone of your expertise”

“Oh, he is spirited. I’ll say that for him. I can see why you keep him around. I like a man with spirit too,” he licks his lips audibly, knowing that will get a rise from the detective. “You didn’t answer me, Sherlock. How are you getting along?”

“I will find you,” Sherlock bites out the words, suddenly unable to hold his cool. “Make no mistake.”

“You know, I think you miss him. Having a heart is verrrrry inconvenient, isn’t it?”

Sherlock sneers and bites back a rather undignified string of obscenities John would be proud of. He squeezes the mobile tightly in his fingers. Dear god, how he wants to kill this man. Crush his windpipe with his bare hands until he tells him where he has imprisoned John. Sherlock clenches his teeth and speaks in a dangerous voice.

“What do you want?”

“What do I want?”

“You called me,” Sherlock says loudly, earning a glance from Greg. “You must have some reason. What is it?”

The line is silent. Sherlock waits. Moriarty is angry. He would rather not have this conversation. Something is wrong. John has done something. Sherlock swallows down the panic rising in his chest and listens intently as the man finally continues. 

“Like I said, our John is a spirited fellow and he has put me in an awkward position,” he pauses. “You see, our lover hasn’t been eating and try as I might, I cannot convince him to start. I thought you might be more successful.”

Sherlock looks toward Greg, who appears to be listening to Sally Donovan intently. He looks away again when the background noise on his mobile regains his singular focus. Shuffling, Moriarty talking, a muffled voice saying ‘I won’t.’ Sherlock presses the mobile closer to his own ear.

“John?” Muffled noises follow, an argument, a slap? He tries the name louder. “John? Are you there?”

The noises on the other end are replaced with heavy breaths of anger and suddenly John is on the line and he is furious. 

“I don’t know who the fuck you are and I’m tired of playing games! So just...”

“John?” Sherlock clutches the mobile with both hands, desperate to keep this contact, this one and only contact with the love of his life. Greg is at his side in a flash.

“It’s John?! Is he okay? Ask him if he’s okay!” he whispers. His own mobile on one ear, but clearly ignoring Sally’s voice as it comes through. Sherlock glares at Greg and mouths ‘shut up’, then focuses on talking to John, who is in the middle of an extraordinarily colorful string of curses.

“John, it’s me. It is me,” he says loudly, finally shouting the first thing that comes to mind. Something he can say that will tell John it’s him. “Vatican cameos!”

Silence. For one frightening moment, Sherlock thinks the line is dead, but then he hears a shuddering breath. John’s voice comes back on as a hesitant whisper.

“Sherlock?”

“John, where are you?”

“I don’t know.”

“No, no, Sherlock. Don’t be naughty. Didn’t your mother teach you to follow the rules?” Moriarty chimes in with a smile in his voice. “Stick to the subject at hand or this ends now and he’s dead.”

Sherlock bites his lip in fury and barely contains a verbal onslaught. He doesn’t believe for a moment that Moriarty will kill John, but he  **is** certain that John will pay dearly if Sherlock does not cooperate.

“How are you?”

“I’m fine. It’s all fine,” John’s voice is all military precision and professionalism. But Sherlock, who knows him so well, can hear the words unspoken.  _ Help me, please _ .

“John, I…”

“No.”

“You need to eat, John.” Greg looks at Sherlock with alarm.

“No.”

“You’ll only grow weaker.”

“That’s the point.”

“I will find you!” The words burst from Sherlock’s mouth quickly and loudly. John is startled enough to gasp, and the detective with him, surprised at his own outburst - like it is something he has wanted to say out loud since the very moment he learned of John’s abduction. He licks his lips and continues in a steady voice. “I will find you, John. I promise you.”

He stops and listens a moment to John’s regular breaths in and out. Sherlock inhales deeply and releases the air slowly as he measures his next words carefully.

“John, I want to find you...not your body,” he pauses, listening to John once again. Breathing in, breathing out. God, he wants to see him. Be next to him. Wrap his arms around him and breathe in John. He hears John inhale sharply. Sure the doctor is going to refuse, Sherlock adds quietly. “Please... John.”

He hears an exhale, a sigh. He imagines John Watson #25: Lips pursed together, the bottom one jutting out ever so slightly in a pout, and eyes closed.

“Okay.”

Sherlock’s face breaks into an expression of relief, but he keeps it separated from his steely voice, wanting to keep his feelings from Moriarty. 

“Thank you,” he says firmly. He knows John will hear everything he hides. Greg breathes a sigh of relief, but his attention is quickly drawn away by the sound of Sally Donovan’s.

“Sherlock, there’s something familiar about this…”

“Sorry, love,” Moriarty interrupts, obviously taking the phone off speaker. “I’m afraid the reunion’s over.” He speaks into the mobile again. “Nicely done, Sherlock. That plea at the end almost sounded sincere.”

Sherlock growls quietly into his phone.

“I will kill you if you touch him.”

Moriarty’s laughter rings loudly in his ear. 

“Bit late for that. Wouldn’t you say, love?” he directs the question away and is back at the mobile. “You’ll forgive me if I don’t chat. Things to do, lover to feed. You know how it is.”

The line goes dead before Sherlock can speak. His only connection to John severed. He feels gutted, and furious. Sherlock throws his mobile to the floor and shouts. Greg takes a step back in surprise and yells over the detective.

“We got him! We got him!”

Sherlock snaps out of his rant immediately, spinning to face the DI.

“Where?”

“Not far. We can take my… What? What the fuck do you mean?!” Greg’s face has gone from joy to confusion to anger in seconds. Sherlock’s expression hardens and he tilts his head, knowing what Greg is about to say. “Fuck! Fuck, Donovan, goddammit!”

Greg pitches his arms down and nearly throws his own mobile to the floor next to Sherlock’s.

“The bastard scrambled the signal. Locations are turning up all over London.”

“FUCK!” Sherlock kicks over a chair. Both men glare and try to regain some control. Sherlock inhales sharply and tries to pull his brain back toward rationality, glancing around the room in thought and finally settling on Greg. “Check them all.”

“What?” he face is incredulous. “We have to prioritize. Come to the Yard and tell me which are most likely, then the next group. We’ll do it in phases.”

Sherlock stops to think for a moment, trying to center his thoughts. He looks at Greg and nods with resolve. They both go for the flat’s exit, pausing briefly for Sherlock’s coat and scarf. As he pulls on the Belstaff, the detective delays a moment. Greg looks at him quizzically.

“Thank you,” he says softly, “for not saying you don’t have the resources.”

“He’s my friend,” Greg says with a small smile. “You both are.”

Sherlock returns a similar smile and they set off down the seventeen steps to Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, everyone.  
> This chapter was incredibly difficult to write. I must have read through it for edits three different times and I changed something every time. I hate doing such horrible things to my John and Sherlock. I truly love them both and, frankly, identify with John the most. Writing is not just something I do for pleasure. It helps me deal with my own feelings and with things that have happened to me in the past. However you all may feel about stories of rape and abuse, I hope you can see it in your hearts to stick with me and trust that I don't just do it for effect. It has actually been very therapeutic. 
> 
> Sorry for the super serious notes when mine are usually somewhat humorous, but I just can't see making jokes just now. This is certainly a downturn in the story, but things will look up again. Highs and lows, up and downs...Persistence.  
> (The story of my life. :) )
> 
> Love to you all and please continue to give your support. It means so very much.  
> Jane


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock takes a little trip to get help from a "friend".  
> An important clue is found.  
> Sherlock and company pay Mycroft a visit.

Sherlock Holmes stands outside a lovely villa in Monaco, his mobile to his ear. He glances around and briefly to the french doors at his back while he waits for Detective Inspector Lestrade to answer his call. He might be irritated if he did not know the delay is because the DI is on the hunt for John Watson. The man effectively passed off all of his other cases to friends in NSY, or has been able to put them on hold. It is something that would be highly frowned upon and, if he isn’t careful, he may be caught and reprimanded. Sherlock has no idea how to thank him for it. At last, he picks up.

“Lestrade.”

“Any news?”

“None. All dead ends so far.”

Sherlock purses his lips. The information is frustrating, but not unexpected. He must move on with his current plan.

“Right. Keep at it. I’m in Monaco for the night. I’ll be back in the morning.”

“What?!” Greg demands, sounding panicked. “You think he’s in Monaco?”

“No.”

“Then what the bloody hell are you doing?!”

Sherlock hears the french doors open behind his back. It is time. He speaks to the DI one last time as he turns around.

“I said I’ll be back in the morning.”

He ends the call before Greg can say a word and faces the doors fully, the mobile quickly stowed in his jacket pocket and arms at his sides. He studies the figure before him and immediately wonders if coming here was a mistake.

Standing at the french doors in her bare feet, a large white shawl wrapped around her body, and a smirk on her face, is Irene Adler. Her eyes are glittering with a pleased curiosity.

“Sherlock Holmes. It  **is** you,” she greets him warmly.

“Irene,” he replies in a neutral tone.

“I almost didn’t believe it when Janette told me a tall man of the name Holmes was here. I thought Mycroft had finally come to admonish me for involving you in Nepal.”

“I know I am not welcome,” Sherlock clears his throat, “but I can at least spare you the burden of my brother’s company.”

“Not welcome? Why would you say that?”

“You are in hiding, are you not? Would you not prefer that no one found you?”  

Irene throws her head back with a hearty laugh. Once again, Sherlock questions his own soundness of mind when he conjured up this plan. He detests asking for help.  **Anyone** for help, much less The Woman, but he would move heaven and earth to free John from Moriarty’s clutches.

“I prefer to think of it as retirement,” Irene’s words pull Sherlock from his thoughts. “I might have known you would find me though. So, business or pleasure?”

“Business.”

“Of course,” Irene smirks slyly. She turns and gestures through the doors. “I was about to have a soak in the pool. Mind if we talk there?”

“Not at all”.

“This way then.”

They walk through the doors and across a finely sculpted garden with smooth stone walkways. Irene leads Sherlock under an archway of hedging and up a short set of stairs onto a patio with a small jetted pool inset in its wooden planks. He stops some distance from the pool and watches as Irene, standing next to the water, turns to face him.

“Care for a drink?” she offers, waving her hands over a small bar.

“Thank you, no.”

“Suit yourself.”

She drops her shawl to reveal not a stitch of clothing on her angular body as the shawl pools at her feet. Her voice comes out a little breathless with desire.

“Join me.” It isn’t a question. “You can leave your suit on that chair. You won’t need them.”

Sherlock fixes her with cold, bored eyes.

“I did say business, and not yours.”

“Yes, you did. Pity. I’d love to know what you like, Sherlock Holmes,” Irene picks up a fruity-looking drink from the bar and sways her hips as she steps into the pool elegantly. She takes a sip from the straw and places the glass on the edge of the pool. Resting her forearms on the edge next to it, she sets her chin on them and she looks up at Sherlock with another smirk. “I take it your plans haven’t changed.” 

“If you mean do I intend to make John Watson my husband, then no, my plans have not changed.”

“And where is your lucky doctor? Left him at home in the surgery?”

“He’s been kidnapped,” Sherlock visibly straightens his spine.

“Kidnapped?”

“Six days ago.”

“You think I know where he is?” the corner of her mouth turns up. “I don’t.”

“No,” the detective answers, remaining stalk still, “but you can help me find him.”

Irene can’t stop a bark of laughter from escaping her lips. Sherlock furrows his brow, narrowing his eyes, his chin angling downward slightly.

“The great Sherlock Holmes needs  **my** help,” she snorts. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d lower yourself.”

“It’s Moriarty,” Sherlock supplies gravely. Irene’s smile fades and she studies him carefully with her best poker face.

“I’m retired, Sherlock,” she replies cooly. “I do not intend to see James Moriarty again.”

“I need someone who knows him better than I. Someone who can undoubtedly find where he has hidden himself.”

“So ask the Iceman,” she shrugs. “He has the connections you need, not me.”

“He’s in a coma.”

Irene’s jaw falls open and she looks at him with disbelief in her eyes. 

“He was a distraction meant to draw me away from John.”

“He’s really outdone himself this time,” she remarks in a low voice, her gaze focused on something at Sherlock’s feet. She glances up at his face again and quickly adopts her typical demeanor. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t help you. I intend to enjoy my retirement and stay as far away from that psychopath as possible. We may have worked together once, but not anymore.”

Sherlock sighs and takes a step toward the pool. He had sincerely hoped he would not have take this track. He looks down at his feet, not wanting to meet her eyes.

“He is torturing him. I cannot allow that to continue. Whatever the cost. I once told you I have never begged for a thing in the whole of my life. I am begging now. John saved us both from dying in that hole in the ground.” He pauses and steels himself, looking directly into her eyes. “Please.”

Irene’s smirk has slipped from her lips once again. She studies Sherlock with all the seriousness of death, knowing he has laid bare his soul and at great cost. She watches him for a full minute. He looks back at her with resolve. Finally, her lips curl upward again, but with no mirth.

“Very well. I’ll go with you to London and help find your doctor.”

“For…” Sherlock begins hesitantly. Irene cocks a brow.

“For?”

“In exchange for…” he prompts again. Sherlock looks extremely uncomfortable as he stands before her. It is perfectly clear what he thinks she will ask for. While he looks absolutely delicious in his well-fitting suit, and he is still the only man she has ever encountered who she would make an acception for, Irene cannot bring herself to demand this indignity of him.

“Oh no, Sherlock,” she shakes her head. “I won’t ask you to do that. I couldn’t.”

Sherlock’s shoulders seem to relax, his typical expression and body language returning. She has to admit that she prefers him this way - in control, even though she typically likes to dominate. She eyes him, debating on whether or not to be insulted by his reaction to not having sex with her. She lets out a little laugh and the detective cocks a brow.

“It seems I owe you both already, especially your Dr. Watson. And I always repay my debts.”

Sherlock swallows his pride once more in favor of kindness. For John.

“Thank you,” he says simply. Irene huffs a laugh and grins broadly.

“I wish I could say anytime, but I don’t have the heart you do, Sherlock.” Her whole face beams as she watches the detective. He looks almost affronted. She shakes her head. “Quite the little cinnamon roll.” 

***

The following day, Sherlock, Irene, and Greg gather around a large map of London. Every location they have raided to date has been crossed off, leaving many yet to check.

“Don’t even bother with these,” Irene gestures at the map. “He has him somewhere close by.”

“And just how do you know that?” the DI grumbles in an accusatory tone. Greg was less than pleased when he walked into 221B to see Irene. He nearly arrested her, but Sherlock had quickly explained his reasoning and Greg had reluctantly backed down. Still, he is more than happy to let The Woman know they are not on friendly terms.

“I spoke to him recently.”

“You didn’t mention this until now?” Sherlock bristles, once again questioning his own sanity for bringing her into the fold. It seems sentiment would not only dull his intellect, but also drive him to madness.

“He didn’t mention John by name,” she replies, ignoring the detective’s anger, “but did say he was keeping his enemies close.”

“He could’ve meant anything,” Greg says dismissively.

“Maybe, but he sounded so smug. More than I would expect if he meant just anyone.” A hard gaze focuses on Sherlock. “No, he had someone particular in mind. Someone whose abilities he has a great respect for.”

“I have entertained that possibility myself,” Sherlock admits reluctantly. “The further out on the map, the less likely it seems.”

Not looking directly at either of them, Sherlock walks to the window deep in thought.

“Well, we can’t just search at random. Are there any places you know of that could at least provide clues to where John is?” Greg demands. 

Irene glares at him and leans far over the map, studying it carefully. After a few minutes, Sherlock suddenly turns from the window and walks toward his two colleagues. He catches Greg’s speculative eye as he passes and strides out of the room. He enters the kitchen and picks up a small bag from the counter. He removes a fiber from within it and places it under his microscope on the kitchen table. Looking down into the eye pieces, he examines carefully, but it doesn’t take long to see what he should have days ago. He places the fiber back in the bag and walks quickly back to the dining area.

“Here,” Irene has her finger on the map when he enters, “this building. I met him in an apartment in it a few months ago.”

“Moriarty is definitely closer than we think,” Sherlock announces as he nears the table. The other two look at the detective as he lifts the bag, which Greg recognizes immediately.

“Not from your coat then.”

“No. But the same wool that only my tailor uses, so far as I know. If anyone else does, he’d be sure to know.”

“Is he open now?” Irene asks, eyes wide.

“Yes, and only a 20 minute walk from here,” he smirks. “If you can make it in those shoes.”

The Woman grins with a sassy kick.

“Lead the way.”

***

Bertrum Smythe smiles widely as soon as the tall figure in the long coat and blue scarf enters his small shop. He is in his seventies and could have retired more than ten years ago, but he loves his work and his hands haven’t let him down yet. Despite the concepts of mass production and instant gratification, he has plenty of customers who are more than willing to wait for quality. And the man who just entered his shop is one of his most loyal, and his favorite.

“Sherlock,” he greets the detective with open arms, “it is a great privilege to see you. And you have friends.”

“Hello, Bertie,” he replies with a friendly smile. “It’s been too long.”

“Indeed, it has, my boy.”

The older man embraces the younger in a tight hold and, if Greg didn’t know better, he would say they are somehow related. When Sherlock steps back again, he gestures toward the shop door and his companions.

“This is Detective Inspector Lestrade and Miss Adler. We have some questions for you.”

“Of course, of course. Any friend of Sherlock’s,” he smiles at the other two in turn, shaking their hands.

“Hello,” Greg shakes his hand firmly.

“Charmed,” Irene smiles demurely when Bertie kisses her hand gently. Once the introductions are over, Sherlock adopts a stern expression and gets down to business.

“Bertie, we need your help.”

“Of course. Anything I can do.”

“Does anyone else in London use the same wool you use for my coats?”

“There aren’t many good tailors anymore, but a handful of them use it,” Bertie replies as he considers the question carefully.

“But do they use this specific wool? It is very important.”

“No,” he frowns and shakes his head. “Too expensive. That’s all you ever hear. Until I make something out of it.”

Greg glances at Sherlock and produces a photograph, the only photograph they have of James Moriarty. It’s blurry, but good enough for identification. He hands it to Bertie, whose eyes glimmer immediately.

“Has this man been into your shop recently?”

“Yes, yes! New to the area. He needed a coat and two pairs of slippers. He has fine taste in clothing,” Bertie hands back the photo. “His last order was a pair of silk pajamas.”

All three of his guests perk up at this news. Greg steps closer and takes out his notepad as he asks.

“Did he give a name? Address?”

“Christopher Stone. No address. I tell him when things will be ready and he comes to get them. He didn’t give a mobile number, but he has one.”

“Are there any outstanding orders?” Sherlock inquires, a plan forming in his mind.

“I’m afraid not, my friend.”

“Damn,” is all the detective can say when visions are dashed. He does not manage to hide the disappointment from his voice.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I truly am. I wish I knew more,” Bertie answers regretfully. Sherlock nods at his friend and makes certain the older man knows the fault is not his. “I will tell you one thing. He is shopping for two. A coat for himself, but pajamas for a shorter man.”

***

Halfway to Baker Street, Sherlock’s mobile sounds and he receives the news that his brother has come out of the coma. While Sherlock is truly relieved by the news, he does not want to spend time sitting with Mycroft when he could be looking for John. However, Mycroft may have some ideas on narrowing the search further, so the trio hurries to Greg’s car and rushes to the government hospital housing the elder Holmes during his recovery.

Sherlock stops as he enters Mycroft’s room, barely allowing space for the other two to pass through and close the door behind. Sitting next to Mycroft’s bed and reading as he writes on a clipboard is Molly Hooper. She looks up at the trio and gently nudges the ailing man with her hand. He turns his head slowly to see his younger brother seething and ready to pounce. He moves his lips without thinking only to be stopped by the breathing tube still renders him mute. He raises a tired hand in placation and tries to lean forward to emphasize the motion, but Sherlock either doesn’t notice or ignores it.

“Why are you here?” he shouts. He rounds on Greg and lashes out. “Lestrade, if this is your doing…”

“I came on my own,” Molly announces loudly. “Mr. Holmes asked for me.”

This news brings Sherlock’s rant to a screeching halt. He turns to face them. Greg is just as shocked as he is. Irene stands back and watches the scene play out.

“You?? Why would he want you?” Sherlock demands incredulously. Molly glares back at him and answers in an angry tone.

“I have worked with him off and on since identifying Moriarty’s body.”

“And we all know how that turned out,” Sherlock’s fury is renewed. “He should have cast you aside like so much rubbish.”

“Or maybe he has the right idea. Using his head instead of making snap decisions based on his feelings!”

Just then Mycroft throws the clipboard across the room. Startling everyone, all eyes are on him and he’s giving his little brother a look that all but screams shut up. He motions Sherlock closer as Greg retrieves the clipboard and gives it to him. The exhausted man scribbles a note and thrusts it at Sherlock. 

_ Listen to Miss Hooper.  _ He tears it from the detective’s hands before he can say a word, scribbles furiously and thrusts it back at him. _ JUST DO IT _

Sherlock glares at his brother, but says nothing and shifts his eyes to Molly.

“I told him everything that has happened since he was shot. He confirmed with Anthea everything she’s done to date and gave her more to do. Things that couldn’t be done without him. He’s waiting to hear from her.”

Sherlock’s eyes meet Mycroft’s when he feels chilled fingers touch his own. The older man looks quickly to Irene with his eyes, though his expression says nothing.

“I need someone who knows him,” he explains. Mycroft blinks slowly and Sherlock lowers his voice. “It is not a concern. I will owe her nothing.” Sherlock glances at Molly and continues. “Whatever you have told Anthea, narrow it to my flat and the immediate area. Moriarty used Bertie’s shop for a coat and some other orders.” Mycroft’s eyes go wide with undisguised concern. “He’s fine. Moriarty does not seem to suspect his connection to us. The information he has provided proves that Moriarty is in the area, but has offered no other clues as to where Moriarty is keeping John. It has been six days. We must find him.”

Mycroft gives him a slow, tired nod.

_I_ _will contact Anthea._

Sherlock cannot help but let his eyes soften ever so slightly. He mostly loathes his elder brother, but would never wish this upon him.

“Thank you,” he mutters, straightening up and looking at the others. “Our time grows short.”

He, Greg, and Irene turn to go when Molly’s voice stops them. 

“I’m coming with you,” she steps around the bed to follow. “Say what you want, but I am going to help you find John.”

“Don’t bother,” Sherlock meets her stern eyes with icy silver ones. Mycroft watches him with the slightest hint of shock in his eyes. “You cannot redeem yourself.”

“I don’t care,” Molly snaps fiercely. “I don’t care what you think of me. I just want to find John.”

Sherlock narrows his eyes and bores a hole straight through the woman, but she doesn’t back down. He can feel Mycroft and Greg’s eyes on him He narrows his own and clenches his jaw, his nostrils flaring.

“Very well.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I usually talk about the chapter I just posted, but WOW there are so many visceral reactions to the previous chapter. I have definitely felt that way about some of the stories I've read over the last couple years, but I never thought anyone would feel that way about something I wrote. Thank you always for your support and honesty (especially to Sherly for laying your feelings bare). You all may not believe me, but every one of you makes all the difference to me. I can't help but delight in it every time I see the kudos and hits, or read the comments, and it all makes me want to post more. RIGHT NOW. THIS MINUTE. Sometimes it's really hard to hold off a couple of days.
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed chapter 3. I know we didn't see John and you're probably worried about him. Rest assured, he'll be in the next chapter, but I can't say things will be going well. :'(  
> Jane


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ****This chapter contains violence and non-consensual sex. Don’t worry, y’all. John will be okay soon, but this chapter starts out badly for him. If this is a trigger, skip the first section and start at the second (divided by asterisks).****
> 
>  
> 
> John needs Sherlock to find him.

John is alone in his room. He has been a prisoner for seven days. It is hell. The time on his own is frustrating, but preferable to the alternative. John has tried every way he can think of to escape and all to no avail. The wires holding him to the bed cannot be broken and are so tight that he cannot inch his way out of them either. His wrists and ankles are heavily marred from his efforts. Jim will still bandage them on occasion, but only long enough for the wounds to stop bleeding. John discovered that the protection they offer made struggling easier and nearly had a hand free late last night before Jim made an unexpected visit. After a rousing fight that ended in John being securely tied again, he was forced to suffer terribly for his efforts.

Awaking on the morning of the eighth day, after the boost to his hopes of escape were crushed so brutally the night before, finds John exhausted and very quiet. He looks around the room and tries to clear his mind. He cannot put together a new plan with doubt and fear clouding his mind. And he  **cannot** let last night dampen his spirit or his resolve. When Jim is with him, John has to tolerate his flirting and kisses, as well as his conversation and mocking stories of how Sherlock fruitlessly searches for John. Instead of discouraging him, it gives John ample opportunity for defiance and taunting. He has earned more than a few bruises and bloody lips, but it’s worth it to think that Jim might lose control and make a mistake that will allow John to escape.

John takes solace wherever he can, especially because his nights have been pure hell since that first time. He fights each and every time Jim visits his bed with designs on his body, and he will continue to, no matter how many times Jim assaults him or how long it takes to escape. Having struggled with suicidal thoughts and depression before, John knows all too well that he cannot allow himself to become bogged down in hopelessness. As a result, he has resolved to never give in and resign himself to this life. Either he will find a way out or Sherlock will find him.

_ Sherlock. _

John shakes his head to clear it. He mustn’t think about Sherlock now. John needs to focus on escape, on a plan. It must be nearing day’s end and Jim will be in soon. John has spent the last two days yelling himself hoarse. Jim unequivocally informed him that the walls are soundproof on the first day, a fact of which John was already certain, but the effect it has on Jim is almost amusing. The man is a master at hiding all emotion, but John has spent enough “quality” time with him now to know his tells and the yelling gets under Jim’s skin like nothing else John does.

“Help! Can anyone hear me? I’ve been kidnapped! Help!”

The door promptly opens and Jim saunters in with a sour look on his face.

“I’ve told you before how useless that is, love.”

“It serves it purpose,” John shoots him a knowing smile. The man very nearly flinches and gives John a warning look.

“Oh, John, you’d best be careful. You don’t want to be on my bad side.”

“This isn’t your bad side? Tied to a bed and repeatedly attacked? Your real relationships must be truly fucked up.”

“To each his own,” Jim shrugs and steps closer. “You’ll get used to it in time. You’ll want me more than you have ever wanted anyone.”

“So you say.”

There is a pause as they look at one another. Challenging one another. Jim is at John’s side now with a hungry look in his black eyes. He begins leaning toward him, but not for a kiss. Maybe to whisper something in his ear. Either way, John gives him a smart ass grin and shouts in his face.

“HELP ME! HEL…”

Jim leaps onto John’s body and thrusts a hand hard over his mouth to silence him.

“Shut. Up.” Jim can feel John smile beneath his hand and then lick his palm. Surprised, Jim gasps and his eyes dilate. Then John bites as much flesh as he can get his teeth on. Jim cries out in pain and wrenches his hand away. John’s eyes are blazing.

“Make me!” he shouts, his blood boiling, his legs trying to kick at the man in spite of the wiring. “Try and make me shut up, you son of a bitch!”

It might not be the smartest move, but John is done with this. It has to stop and pissing Jim off enough to make a mistake seems like the only way to make it happen. John just has to provoke him and tolerate whatever he does until he makes that one mistake. 

Jim strikes him soundly and then presses his lips against John’s, biting and devouring. John shakes his head violently only to have the man grip it from both sides to force him still. John tries to bite Jim again to get him off, but Jim pulls away too quickly. His hands slide down to John’s chest, fingers pressing hard as they go.

“You’ll do whatever I tell you when I tell you and beg me for more. You’ll love it, John, and you will adore me. I will break you!”

“I will  **never** feel anything for you! You are a despicable human being,” John laughs cruelly and sneers. “You aren’t Sherlock’s equal. You’ll never measure up to…”

Jim roars and slams his fist into John’s jaw. He grabs whatever is nearest and breaks it on John’s temple. Dazed and his vision blurred, John struggles not to lose consciousness. Suddenly there is a knife in Jim’s hand and he’s stabbing John’s left arm relentlessly while shouting almost unintelligible words. Fortunately, his erratic movements stop just after a few minutes, John biting his tongue the whole time to keep from crying out. Jim presses the knife’s tip to his throat, immediately drawing blood, and John stares into those burning black eyes.

“You are mine, John,” Jim whispers. “There is NOTHING you can do to change that.” He sits up again, but keeps digging the knife into John’s throat. A vicious smile twists across his face. “But if you want it rough, I’ll do it rough.”

He pulls away the knife and starts cutting the jeans from John’s legs. The blade pierces the skin of each thigh to varying degrees. The left is far worse than the right and John can’t contain a grunt of pain as the knife enters and slides through his flesh. His doctor’s mind tells him not to panic, that it isn’t deep, that it won’t cut on artery. He watches, trying to struggle, as Jim smiles devilishly and cuts off John’s tee and pants, throwing it all into the room at every angle. When he is finished, he rests himself calmly on John’s oozing thighs.

“Now where should I put this?” he gestures to the knife still clenched in his fist. “Oh, I know the perfect spot.”

He grins sharply and thrusts the knife into John’s left shoulder just next to the starburst scar. John screams, unable to stop his reaction to the pain. He looks up at a laughing Jim Moriarty with tortured eyes. The man has never looked more insane and a dark dread settles over John. He pushed too hard and it could mean his end.

“That’s just what I want to hear, love. Yes, more of that with enthusiasm would be a dream.” Jim snarls as the frightening grin takes over his face. He leans down over John’s body and licks a stripe across his parted and panting lips. He rises and climbs off the bed. John closes his eyes when Jim begins to undo his belt. 

_ Sherlock, please. I can’t do this much longer. Please. _

John shakes his head quickly, determined to cast away those thoughts. He will not break.  **He will not break.** He will not beg anyone for anything! 

His eyes open again as the mattress dips down under the weight of Jim’s body. Those cold black eyes stare at John, tongue licking at lips, ready to take everything from John. Everything. Jim smiles lustfully. His fingers dig bruises into John’s thighs as he pushes them further apart and settles between them. He yanks John’s body up to meet his own.

“You brought this on yourself, love. I always wanted to be gentle,” he laughs hoarsely. “Maybe you’ll learn faster this way.”

Without another word, Jim thrusts into John and it’s all John can do not to cry out. Jim growls and sets a furious pace. John is on fire.

“I want to hear you scream. I want you to scream my name!”

Pain vibrates through every inch of his body, still John grits his teeth and vows not to make a sound. The raging beast upon him goes harder and faster. John can feel vomit welling up in his throat and swallows it down. Tears are leaking from his eyes and dripping down onto the pillows, but he doesn’t even notice. The all-encompassing pain suddenly cuts off all his senses and he can feel nothing else but. He faintly hears Jim’s voice screaming, ‘Say my name! I won’t stop until you SAY MY NAME!’

_ I’ll die first. I’ll die _ .

***** If you skipped the first section, start here.**

Sherlock and his team of friends are back at 221B, talking through their next steps and waiting for word from Anthea. To say the very least, their nerves getting thin. Greg is staring at the map on the table while Molly asks which locations make the most sense now. She is interrupted by Irene suddenly slamming her fist on the table, her face red with fury.

“We’ve been wasting our time! It won’t be just  **anywhere** close by. It has to be somewhere special. A place they frequent.”

“What? Like the Yard?” Greg asks before he can stop himself. Once the words are out, he nearly rolls his own eyes at its stupidity. Irene looks at him with dull eyes and an expression that screams idiot.

“Yes, Detective Inspector, that is a place they often go, but do I think Moriarty is hiding John at New Scotland Yard?” she quips. “No.” 

Greg frowns more at himself than at her sarcasm and tries to think of something that might actually be a possibility.

“What about Angelo’s? They could be in some flat around there,” he suggests. “Plenty of them even face the restaurant itself, so Moriarty could watch out for us.”

“Maybe,” Irene considers, biting on a knuckle. “He might even make John watch people come and go to torture him. So close, yet so far away.”

Greg and Molly both frown at her tactlessness. Greg glances at Sherlock to make sure he’s okay, but sees nothing in his blank expression. He looks...different. He lacks his usual energy and honestly seems to be staring off into nowhere, instead of seeing something no one else can see that tells him how to solve the case. As Greg slowly tunes out the two women’s voices, he shivers at what he sees in the detective’s eyes. Hopelessness. The man before him is a shadow of his former self, gaunt and pale. It is at this precise moment that Greg fully understands what joy John has brought into the detective’s life. Sherlock is nothing without John and he is slowly fading away again.

“What about a park or a…” Molly’s words draw Greg’s ears back into the conversation. He focuses his attention on them once more.

“He’d dump his body in a park,” Irene snickers.

“Can you be any  **less** considerate?” Molly bristles, glaring at The Woman and crossing her arms.

“Sherlock brought me here to find John, not consider his feelings and dance around the facts.”

“There’s a difference between being blunt and being a bitch.”

Greg can’t help but grin at that, but does manage to hold in a laugh. Suddenly, an apparently not so oblivious Sherlock springs to life. He leaps into the middle of the room and glares from one to the other, stretching out his arms and demanding their attention. He must put an end to their incessant bickering if he is expected to concentrate on the matter at hand and, for whatever reason, simply accessing his mind palace and shutting them out is not working.

“SHUT UP. SHUT UP. Don’t move. Don’t breathe. I have to think.”

Irene fixes her eyes on Sherlock as he becomes very serene. He stares at nothing in particular just before closing his eyes and touching steepled fingers to his chin right there in the middle of the room. She walks to him and stands very close, her icy gaze boring into his skull.

“Think, Sherlock, think!” she demands, putting her hands on his shoulders. He flinches, but does not open his eyes or move. “Somewhere special. A place untouched and safe. That’s the game. To be right under your nose and get away with it.”

Her words drown out as Sherlock enters his mind palace, searching. Memories flash by as he tries to piece together words and clues, to make a short list of places John might be. Greg’s suggestion hovers at the forefront of his mind.

Angelo’s... _ So you’re unattached. Like me. _

Hyde Park...  _ I could sit on this bench forever and just watch the world go by. If you were with me. _

Nipa Thai...  _ So when you said nibble, you weren’t referring to to dinner. _

Clegg’s Eggroll Emporium...  _ Suppose I didn’t want my usual, Sherlock. What if I wanted something different? Something spicy. _

Regent’s Park... _ I was thinking about when you were in that dungeon with Irene and thought if we sync our mobiles, we could use GPS to track each other. Not that it would’ve helped... _

Sherlock’s eyes fly open, a gasp on his lips. If the others didn’t know better, they would assume a heart attack. Startled, Irene jumps back, keeping her arms outstretched in case he lunges at her. Sherlock’s fingers are no longer steepled, but are spread wide and his arms are extended as if in surprise. His eyes dart around the room at all three of his colleagues and his right hand pulls through his disheveled curls. His silver eyes are bright.

“What is it? D’you have something?” Greg steps closer. The excitement in the room is palpable. Sherlock’s voice is barely audible as he mutters to himself.

“John, you are brilliant.” He pulls his mobile from his pocket, thankful he didn’t break it the last time he threw it, and starts searching the apps he never pays attention to. “This will work if you still have a charge.”

“Sherlock, what is it? What have you found?” Molly asks hesitantly, not sure what to make of this development. Sherlock continues speaking quietly to himself. “Sherlock?”

He raises his intense eyes and looks right at Molly. She can’t help but gasp at what she sees. His lips are turned up and he wears the expression of a man trying to ward off a newfound hope, lest his fledgling belief fall flat and destroy him.

“Shortly after I returned from Nepal, John linked our mobiles so we could track one another. I wanted to…had something on my mind when he told me and didn’t pay attention. I interrupted him before he could get the words out, in fact.”

“I’m surprised you even remembered,” Greg comments somewhat sarcastically. Sherlock turns his head and looks at him very seriously.

“I never delete anything John says.”

“Fine. Whatever. It’s been eight days,” Irene crosses her arms and stares at him in doubt. “There’s no way his mobile has any power.”

“On the contrary, mobiles hold a charge for days at a time when they are not being used. With any luck, Moriarty just dropped it on a table and ignored...”

He trails off, his eyes locked on his own mobile as he navigates the app. Within seconds, the pleased and hopeful expression he had tried to hide so desperately melts away to barely controlled fury. The others glance round at one another with trepidation and inch closer to him

“Sherlock?” Molly repeats, trying to sound calm. She watches Greg, almost horrified, as he throws caution to the wind and rushes to the detective’s side, looking at the mobile clenched in the taller man’s hands. His eyes go wide with disbelief.

“That’s here,” he exclaims, nearly shouting. “That signal is right here in this bloody building. It can’t be!”

“Could it be a mistake or a scrambled signal again?” Molly pulls herself together quickly, her voice full of shock and worry.

“Moriarty must have brought it here and hidden it,” Irene comments, deep in thought. “It’s part of the game.”

“But that’s ridiculous. Why would he risk bringing it here?” Molly contradicts her. “Why not just destroy it or throw it away?”

Before anyone can respond, Sherlock throws his mobile to the ground and this time it shatters. An uncontrolled, blood curdling scream bursts from his lips, along with a string of curses. His whole body is filled with rage and frustration, so much so that he cannot remain still. He stomps around the room, pacing in circles while he shouts curses at everything in sight. Greg takes a step toward him, trying to figure how to calm the man, only to jump back again. Sherlock’s furious glare comes to rest on the skull above the fireplace and a whole world of memories flood from a door in his mind palace that he has kept closed for the last eight days.

_ Is that real? It’s an old friend. … It was a mistake. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. … Thank you, John, but you should have left the platform. Bollocks. I would never..I know. Neither would I. ...Why would that matter? You know I love you. …  _ _ Caring is not an advantage..Caring is everything. … Do you trust me? Yes. … What the bloody hell is this?  _ **_That_ ** _ is what’s bothering you? …  _ _ Surely you were given sponge baths when you were in Afghanistan. … Have I forgotten something? I did mention the marmalade. … I am going to marry you, John Watson. …  _

“ENOUGH!” Sherlock shouts, grabbing the skull and crashing it to the floor. It shatters into a million pieces. At that moment, he can feel his heart breaking into just as many pieces. His chest hurts. It hurts so badly that he wants the shreds of his heart to burst from it and mix with the bone pieces scattered around his feet.

The flat is silent and the world seems to stop around Sherlock. Nothing moves around him. Still staring at the splintered bones and white dust left by the skull, his neck bends forward slowly as the darkness of a deep depression he has barely held off descends upon his mind. However, he is pulled from its clutches almost as soon as it tries to take hold when he, and the rest of the room’s occupants, are startled back into the present by  the unmistakable sound of the door to the flat bursting open. Mrs. Hudson appears in the sitting room doorway seconds later, her face flushed with anger.

“Sherlock Holmes, you must stop shouting!” she bellows as she walks straight for the man standing in debris. “I can hear you all the way down in my flat and I’m sure the new tenant can too.”

“What?” is his only response. Everything stops again. Every person in the room stands in shocked silence, looking at him. No one knows what to expect and inch closer when he takes an unsteady step toward the older woman. Looking at her with wide eyes, almost the eyes of a child, Sherlock asks quietly. “The new tenant?”

“Yes, Sherlock,” she scolds and rests her hands on her hips. “I told you about him when you came home after all those months. Or was it just John? Good god, Sherlock, what have you done? What a mess you’ve made!”

If Mrs. Hudson says anything more, Sherlock does not hear her. Another door in his mind palace has opened and her words from weeks ago come spilling out. He purposefully hadn’t deleted them because John had insisted he remember in case they bumped into the new occupant of 221C.

_Completely remodeled while you were gone and it was snapped up right away._ _He keeps to himself, but he’s a nice enough bloke…_

“Mrs. Hudson,” Sherlock strides to his precious landlady and friend, putting an arm around her shoulders and directing her to the door, “I need you to open 221C.” 

“What? Sherlock, I can’t just…”

Greg suddenly comes to life and follows right behind them, his own process of deduction catching up with Sherlock’s. He lays a hand on the woman’s arm and reassures her as they continue into the hall toward the door leading out to the seventeen steps.

“He’s right, Mrs. Hudson. Please let us in.”

***

Moments later, Mrs. Hudson has unlocked the door to 221C and has locked herself in her own flat at Sherlock’s instruction. With his gun drawn, Greg pushes the door open silently and enters slowly. He moves around cautiously to clear the flat, rolling his eyes when the others follow closely behind. There is nothing out of the ordinary in the kitchen, sitting room, or loo. It is a small flat and they soon come to its single bedroom. Greg lays his hand on the room’s doorknob and finds it locked. He motions to Sherlock, who quickly kneels before the door. He has picked the lock in seconds and stands back so Greg can lead the way. 

Greg pushes the door open and enters the dimly lit room. All eyes immediately fall on John Watson, unconscious and tied securely to the bed. Resisting every urge, Sherlock remains outside of the room until Greg has checked it and the closet within. He soon turns and motions them in while putting away his gun.

Sherlock rushes in, straight to the bed. Molly and Irene follow him, switching on the overhead light as they go. The detective presses his fingers to the pulse point in John’s throat uncertain of what he will do if he feels nothing. To his relief, he feels a steady and strong pulse as soon as his fingers touch the warm skin. His eyes glide over John’s body as he takes stock of his condition. His entire left arm is bandaged from shoulder to wrist with a knife still jutting out from his shoulder. His right wrist is also bandaged beneath the wire bonds that tie him to the bed. There is a small bandage on his neck and a gash at one temple that has been stitched closed, but not bandaged. Navy blue pajama pants cover more bandages wrapped around his thighs. His ankles are bandaged under the bonds, just like his wrists.

“John?” Molly’s quaking voice interrupts Sherlock’s examination as she appears on the other side of the bed and touches John’s hand carefully.

“He’s been drugged. Probably to tend to his wounds,” Sherlock keeps his voice and demeanor clinical, knowing that he will crumble if he allows himself to think beyond that. He whips his head around to look at Greg when he feels the man’s hand on his shoulder.  

“I’m bringing my men in,” he tells him quietly, mobile already at his ear. 

“You won’t find anything,” Irene supplies cynically.

“Doesn’t matter.”

“You do that. I’m calling Bart’s,” Molly’s firm tone cuts through the still air in the room, speaking the first words in a normal tone of voice. “He needs to be in hospital and I can get them here faster.”

Sherlock simply nods and returns his attention to the unconscious doctor. He leans in close and gently strokes John’s blonde hair. He kisses his warm forehead and holds his cheek against it for a moment before pulling back to look at him.

“God, John, what has he done to you?”

“They’ll be here in twenty minutes at most,” Molly looks at him sadly from the other side of the bed. Sherlock nods curtly once more. Molly tears her eyes away and grazes her fingers over John’s wrists.

“How do we get these off?”

“There must be a way to release him under the bed,” he replies, trying desperately to keep his voice steady.

They both squat down and meet eyes under the bed. Sure enough, there is a release mechanism on either side of the bed frame. They pop the buttons and re-emerge above the bed, quickly removing the wires from John’s extremities. Sherlock watches John’s face, slack in unnatural slumber, as he takes a lifeless hand in one of his own and touches John’s cheek gently with the other.

“Sherlock.” He looks up to see a tear falling from Molly’s wet eyes and trickling down her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’m so…” she stutters through a sob, “so sorry.”

Sherlock forces himself to keep her gaze and gives a reassuring twitch of his chin.

“I know,” is all he can say. He returns his attention to John. Carefully stroking his cheek, Sherlock sighs and presses his forehead to John’s. He feels both relief at having found this man who means so much and guilt at not having found him days ago. He whispers reverent apologies to him and promises that he will never leave John’s side again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hooray!!!!! John is saved!
> 
> I know, I know, two chapters in two days is either Christmastime or overwhelming, but I couldn't sit on this chapter any longer. I just couldn't!
> 
> And now you're all wondering if he's truly okay. Will he be able to pick up the pieces? Will Sherlock be able to help him?  
> All of these questions and more will be answered in the coming chapters. I'm so excited to share them with you!! :D  
> Much love (I hope you all don't mind the posting frequency) and thank you for reading. You are, as ever, fully loved and appreciated.  
> Jane


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John wakes up.

John’s eyelids feel heavy when he opens them. His vision is blurred, but he’s gotten used to how it feels to wake up from sedation over the last week. He waits a few minutes for his eyes and mind to clear. The room is dim. He can feel bandages covering the parts of his body Jim used as a pincushion. He expected to be in more pain. Has Jim started giving him pain killers? That’s different.

John blinks once or twice and stares at the ceiling. He vaguely notices the overhead light fixture is different, but it doesn’t really register as he rubs his temples with cold fingers. As he tries to reclaim clarity from the fog of drugs, the faint sound of a regular beep reaches his ears. He turns his head toward it, but stops when he sees his own hand before his face. His eyes go wide as he begins to realize. He was rubbing his temples. His eyes dart back and forth from one hand to the other and suddenly, he notices the pressure of something weighing on his belly. He slowly lifts his head off its pillow and looks down his body to see a dark head of hair resting there. Two arms are folded under the head’s accompanying torso, pressed against John’s side.

Gasping, John sits up abruptly and pushes himself back in the bed to get away from Jim, even as his body screams in pain. His left arm, completely covered with bandages, buckles under the weight of his own body. Pain shoots through it from the stab wound in his shoulder, all of which he resolutely ignores as best he can. Jim can never touch him again,  **will** never touch him again.

The head of curls snaps up at John’s hasty retreat and hands with elegant, long fingers extend toward him in a gesture of placation. John continues to push his back against the incline of the hospital bed, not even beginning to comprehend the startled silver eyes that stare back at him.

“John!” comes a deep baritone. “John, it’s all right. You’re in hospital.”

John is frozen where he sits. He stares intently at the man before him, unable to believe he is actually there. Is it a dream? Is his cruel subconscious mind trying to soothe him with visions of what he most desires? John’s wide eyes slowly travel over the detective. His left arm twitches with pain and he swallows hard against his dry throat.

“Sh…Sherlock?”

“Yes, it’s me.”

John’s expression doesn’t change and the color drains from his face. For a moment, Sherlock believes he may be going into shock. He leans forward slightly and extends an open hand, palm up to the smaller man. John licks his lips, looking at Sherlock’s hand with cautious eyes. He looks like a startled deer and it makes Sherlock’s heart ach.

“You’re really here?”

“Yes, John. You’re in hospital.”

John’s dark blues remain wide as can be as he takes in the room around him for the first time. An IV stand is on his right, its tubing snaking to his arm. He touches the skin near the tube, seemingly mystified. Wiring connects him to a heart monitor, the source of the beeping that is so clear to him now and faster than it was before. A large window with drawn shades covers most  of one wall, an inset sink and the room’s door on the other. On the same wall is the door to a private loo. His wide eyes are still full of disbelief and fear as his gaze finally comes to rest on Sherlock once more.

“John, you must rest,” he says carefully. “Your stitches may break if you…”

The words die on Sherlock’s tongue as John leans forward and touches his fingertips to Sherlock’s delicately. The doctor gasps and pulls away, but reaches for him again quickly. He meets the detective’s eyes, his own beginning to glisten as realization comes to his disbelieving mind. He breathes out a long sigh and slides his fingers down to Sherlock’s warm palm.

“Sherlock,” he whispers reverently.

“John,” he replies quietly.

John’s body lurches forward unexpectedly and he wraps his arms around his flatmate, trapping Sherlock’s long arms between them. Tears fall from John’s eyes and onto Sherlock’s shoulder while he squeezes as tightly as he can. He can’t ever let go, won’t ever let go. Never again. Sherlock twists his arms loose and embraces his trembling friend. He does not say a word, just holds the man in his arms and lets him shudder against his body. After a few minutes, the sobs begin to lessen and Sherlock can tell John is trying to regain his composure. He gently slides one hand up John’s back to rest on his nape. He bends his neck down and presses his cheek to John’s head.

“You’re safe now. It’s all right.”

“I knew you’d find me. I knew,” John’s voice stutters, “you wouldn’t give up.”

“I would never stop looking, John,” Sherlock shakes his head lightly. John lets his face slip up the angle of Sherlock’s shoulder and buries his nose in the man’s long neck, his cheek brushing against shirt collar. He inhales deeply all the way, desperate to surround himself with Sherlock’s scent. Needing the comfort that only this man, his friend and true love, can provide. For his part, Sherlock puts his concerns for John’s immediate physical well-being on hold and allows him to take what he needs to calm his nerves and mind.

When John finally pulls back and meets the detective’s eyes again, it is with a more relaxed gaze. His tongue darts out to wet his lips as he takes in his partner’s beautiful face. Sherlock waits patiently. Not his forte, but suddenly very easy to do as he watches John take in everything around him.

“How?”

“Your mobile,” he answers simply and John exhales deeply. Sherlock shakes his head sadly as he looks deeply into John’s eyes. “I’m sorry I didn’t realize days ago.”

“Don’t worry about that,” John begins and then stops, just staring at Sherlock, drinking in every detail. “I missed you. I missed you so much, but I couldn’t let myself hope... I kept trying to think of a way to escape and...and...”

Sherlock pulls him close again to comfort him and whispers against his ear.

“You are my world. I will always come for you. You’re the other half of my heart and forever in my mind.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

John’s mouth finds Sherlock’s and his mind goes blank as their lips press together. No longer is it plagued by Jim and all his horrors. For a few blissful moments, it is only Sherlock and the way their lips move together. Warmth radiates off the detective, and John holds on tightly and lets it wash over him. When their lips part, both sigh softly and John nuzzles into Sherlock’s collar again.

“You are safe now, John. Moriarty will not take you again,” Sherlock murmurs peacefully. Steeped in reverence, he is taken by surprise when John suddenly pulls away and looks at him, his eyes filled with dread.

“You don’t know that.”

“I will not allow it,” Sherlock replies sternly.

“He won’t stop, Sherlock. He wants me,” John pauses to choose his next words carefully. “He wants to possess me. To own me.”

Sherlock cups John’s face in his soft hands and looks into his worried eyes.

“No one can own John Watson. He may try, but he will never break you.”

John’s lips twitch into a small smile. He looks at his flatmate with adoring eyes that are rapidly filling with tears. His mouth opens, but he doesn’t make a sound. He cannot find the words to tell Sherlock what powerful emotions he feels right now or how much Sherlock’s words mean to him. His belief in John’s strength of will is so absolute, so certain that John cannot begin to deny it or even question it himself. No matter how he felt when he was with Jim just a few hours ago, looking into Sherlock’s steady and confident eyes, John knows he will not bend if Jim ever tortures him again.

A tear escapes John’s eye and he sighs, still unable to speak. Sherlock quickly wipes the tear away and kisses John softly, chastely. He rests their foreheads together, giving John comfort and space to breathe and just be together.

“Thank you,” John whispers eventually. “What you said. Your faith in me means everything.”

“And you will always have it,” Sherlock looks at him solemnly. “You are the wisest and strongest man I have ever known. I love you.”

John nearly replies, but does not when they hear the room’s door open and slow footsteps enter. The two men continue to look at one another with soft eyes before redirecting their attention. Greg and Molly both stand just inside the room with smiles on their faces. John greets them happily. They exchange hugs and well wishes. Eventually, John is sitting comfortably in his bed with the others all around him. Unable to keep silent a moment longer, Molly wrings her hands and starts speaking quickly.

“I’m so sorry, John. This, all of this is my fault. I never should have helped him.”

“Don’t, Molly,” John cuts her off. “You had no choice. Jim will do anything to get what he wants. Whatever he threatened you with, he would’ve done it without blinking.”

“But everything you’ve been through…”

“Is not your fault and I don’t blame you. Please let’s just forget it,” John smiles and touches her hand gently. Molly blinks back tears, swallows hard, and nods.

“I’m glad you’re all right, John,” she pauses. “You are all right?”

“I thought I’d let Sherlock tell me,” he turns to his flatmate and pauses for a moment, surprised by the anger in his features. John considers asking Sherlock what’s wrong, but quickly dismisses it for another time. “Surely a doctor has told you. That is, if you hadn’t deduced it already.”

“Dr. Collins has informed me that your injuries are largely superficial,” the detective begins crisply. “The deeper wounds on your thighs have been stitched closed and will heal easily with time. The more serious wound on your shoulder has been tended to. No trouble is expected, especially now that you have regained consciousness. However, he will still keep you here a few more days.”

“Surgery?” John winces, hand moving toward his shoulder, already knowing the answer.

“A relatively short one. To repair the muscle.”

“You see,” John smiles and looks back at Molly after cringing slightly, “I’m fine.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“Molly, I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock looks as if he wants to add something and not in a nice tone, but the door to the room opens before he can begin and a doctor with a smile on his face enters.

“Dr. Watson, Dr. Collins,” the others rise and move out of the way as he approaches. He assures them they aren’t in the way and then returns his attention to John. “It’s good to see you awake. How are you feeling? Are you in any pain?”

“Not so much anymore. Just a dull ache now.”

“Good, good. I’ll be back in a moment to examine you, but I wanted to come in and check on you. I see you’re sitting up. That’s good, but be careful, Doctor. Don’t push yourself too hard. You’ve been through quite a bit,” he smiles kindly as John nods. “Don’t hesitate to call a nurse if your pain increases.”

“Sure. Thanks so much.”

“My pleasure. As I say, I’ll be back soon to take a look at your injuries,” Dr. Collins assures him. He looks at Sherlock as he turns to leave. “Mr. Holmes, may I speak with you for a moment?”

“Certainly.”

The two men exit without another word. Molly hugs John once more and bids him farewell  shortly thereafter, wanting to give Sherlock plenty of space. His feelings toward her have not changed, but neither has he lashed out at her since they rescued John. With everyone else gone, only Greg and John are left in the room. John eyes the DI carefully, unable to read his expression, but he can tell that something is on his mind. He looks cautious and caring, but also sad. More so than John would think, given that he is here in hospital and no longer in Jim’s clutches. John angles his head toward Greg and gives him a little smile.

“You okay, Greg?

“I should ask you that question.”

“You heard Sherlock,” John nods toward the closed door. “Everything’s just fine.”

“Right,” Greg nods, biting his lip. “I’m glad. That’s good. It looked pretty bad when we found you.”

“I bet.” John watches as Greg steps up to stand beside him, running a hand through his salt and pepper hair.

“Look, John, I haven’t said anything to Sherlock about your…injuries.”

John studies his friend, pursing his lips and chewing at his cheek. He knows exactly what the DI means, but wills him not to know. John feels his stomach drop into the all-consuming pit of shame trying to take over his very being, but steels himself to rail against it. He has nothing to be ashamed of, **nothing.** John licks his lips and responds hesitantly.

“My injuries?”

“Dr. Collins hasn’t either,” Greg continues, knowing that John knows exactly what he means. “He was obligated to tell me as the lead investigator. No one else knows anything beyond what Sherlock told you.”

“I see.” 

“I’m sorry, John.”

“Just leave it,” John cuts him off abruptly.

“Right,” Greg takes a step back and puts his hands in his pockets, wanting to give his friend space and time to come to terms, but also wanting to help in any way he’ll let him. “Samples have been taken for testing, HIV and the like. Results should be back in three to four weeks.”

John closes his eyes in regret and nods. Greg watches him for a moment and swallows audibly. 

“I won’t say anything,” he breathes quietly. “It isn’t my place. I’ll keep it quiet as long as you do. As long as you want me to.”

John lets go of a breath he didn’t realize he was holding.

“Thank you, Greg. I appreciate it.”

“Sure, but... you will tell him?”

“I don’t know.”

“John,” Greg’s shoulders sag and he runs a hand through his hair again, “you can’t just keep him in the dark. You suffered a major trauma.”

“Don’t. Just don’t,” John interrupts, eyeing him stringently. “I’ve dealt with PTSD for years now and most of that time with Sherlock. I can bloody well cope and keep it to myself.”

Greg opens his mouth to implore, but the room door swings open wide and Sherlock steps in. He looks from one man to the other, his brow furrowing at the unexpected tension in the air.

“Everything all right?”

“Yes. Fine,” John answers quickly. The detective’s eyes slide to Greg’s, inquiring and doubtful. To his credit, the DI reveals nothing but the concern he would have for John regardless. He quickly moves toward the door and holds it open for himself.

“I need to get back to work. John,” the two men lock eyes, “call me if you need anything. Anything at all.”

“I will, Greg. Thanks.”

Greg nods and pulls the door closed as he passes through it. Sherlock looks to John and narrows his sharp, silver eyes just a little, taking in everything he sees. John tries to hide all the thoughts screaming through his mind and, if Sherlock deduces anything, he keeps it to himself and walks to the bed.

“Would you like anything? Tea perhaps?”

“I’d love some,” John sighs with a smile.

“There’s a machine down the hall. I’m sure it will not have your favorite, but there should be something palatable. I’ll just…”

“No!” John grabs Sherlock’s wrist with an iron grip. The detective’s eyes go wide. John curses himself silently and tries to loosen his fingers. He smiles uneasily and attempts a little laugh. “Just call it into the cafeteria.”

“It will take them 45 minutes just to deliver a simple cup of tea. I won’t be five.”

“I know. Just order it please.” Sherlock looks directly into John’s eyes. The doctor doesn’t bother hiding his desperation. “Please stay. I don’t want to be alone.”

Sherlock’s eyes soften even as they continue to take in every detail of John’s face and body.

“Very well. But let’s look at the menu then and make it a proper order. You must be hungry.”

“I am a little, Yeah.”

“Excellent. Now, let’s see what they have,” Sherlock grabs the menu and sits in a chair next to the bed. 

John smirks when their order only takes a half hour to be delivered. He smirks again when everything is found to be reasonably tasty. Dr. Collins returns just as they are finishing the meal and looks over John carefully. Afterwards, the two men spend the rest of the afternoon talking and laughing. Everything comes back to them easily and they find themselves slipping back into their comfortable norm as day turns to night. They order an evening meal around seven and get it by eight. This time Sherlock smirks. After they have finished, they continue to chat and even play gin with a deck of cards Sherlock procured from the nurses. John ribbed him upon his return at what he can do when he puts on the charm and Sherlock promised to use his powers only for good.

“Of course, it was then that I realized Hudders knew how I felt about you. Do you know what she told me?” Sherlock studies his cards, takes the queen of clubs from the discard pile, and replaces it with the two of hearts. He affects a very plausible Mrs. Hudson as he places the card on the pile. “ ‘He fancies you, Sherlock. He’ll rush into your arms.’ Isn’t that absurd?”

Sherlock giggles and finally raises his eyes to John’s face. The vision that greets him is nothing less than adorable. Sitting up, with cards in his hand, is a dozing John Watson. His mouth is open slightly, his eyebrows appear to be raised, in spite of his slumber. Sherlock smiles and clears away the cards. After dimming the lights, he returns to the bedside and bends over John. He touches his doctor lightly and speaks quietly in his deep baritone.

“John? John, can you lie down?”

“Mmph,” John stirs and opens his sleepy eyes. “Wha?”

“You fell asleep.”

“Oh, sorry,” he tries to straighten up. “You were talking.”

“Don’t worry about it, John. It’s late and you need to rest.” He helps John scoot down the bed and recline onto his back. Sherlock strokes his hand through John’s blonde locks and smiles affectionately as he leans down to kiss John’s forehead. “I love you, John.”

“I love you too,” his doctor smiles tiredly.

“Get some sleep.” Sherlock straightens up and starts to turn away, but stops when a strong hand grasps his own. He turns back to John. His once sleep heavy eyes are now wide and he is clearly very unnerved. A spike of concern whips through Sherlock’s body. He steps up close and kneels by the bed to take John’s hands in his own and look him in the eye. “John, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” John nearly cuts him off with his abrupt answer. Sherlock tilts his head in doubt and begins to speak when John silences him with a squeeze of his hands. “Just stay. Just until I fall asleep. Don’t leave me. Please.”

Sherlock stands and perches on the bed. John moves over a bit so he has more room. Once they are both comfortable, Sherlock leans forward and cups John cheek. The doctor welcomes the contact and sighs contentedly, as he reaches for the detective and eases him closer. 

“I will not leave your side. I will stay all night if you like,” Sherlock says quietly, his breath warming John’s face. He smiles and brushes his lips against Sherlock’s.

“Yes, please.” He budges over more, turning onto his uninjured side, and pulling Sherlock down next to him in the bed. With his head on Sherlock’s shoulder and his body resting against Sherlock’s side, John inhales deeply and sighs. “Thank you.”

Sherlock kisses his head and holds John in his arms until sleep finds them both.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this is such a short chapter, y'all. I'm hoping to get the next one out faster now. I must say I'm having fun editing it, but...of course I won't say why.
> 
> Thanks again for all of your love and support. I'm always open to comments and suggests. They are my bread and butter. 
> 
> And I promise I'll answer all of the questions you still have as the story goes on.  
> John fans: Is John going to be okay?  
> Sherlock fans: Will he find Moriarty before he comes for John again?  
> Sherlock and John fans: When will they finally talk about what happened to John?  
> Molly fans: Will Sherlock ever forgive her?  
> Greg fans: Will he be able to keep John's secret?   
> Mycroft fans: Will he resume trying to undermine John and Sherlock's relationship?  
> Moriarty fans (if any exist :D ): Just where the fuck is Jim anyway?
> 
> Stay tuned. If it doesn't come out in this part, it will in another one. I know I keep saying it, but Persistence is key. LOL.  
> Love, Jane


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has night terrors.  
> Greg notices something different about Sherlock.  
> The duo has a case.

It has been a week since John awoke in hospital. When he thought the nightmare had ended, but it continues in his dreams. Jim’s face, his hands, his voice. John wakes up thrashing and shouting every night, sometimes with Sherlock, sometimes not. John is thankful for both his flatmate’s presence and absence. When he is there, John isn’t as terrified and takes comfort in his embrace. However, when Sherlock is not there, John is at least certain that he hasn’t harmed him unintentionally. John is positive he has lashed out at Sherlock in his sleep or has collided with some part of his body while jarring himself from slumber. The detective, true to his nature, has hidden any evidence from John and denied being hurt no matter what John asks. In spite of it, John believes the contrary and has considered many courses of action over the last few days.

It is two in the morning and Sherlock is draped across the sofa with his eyes closed. His hands are steepled beneath his chin with only his fingertips touching. John emerges from a door in front of him wearing a white button-down, red pants, and a pair of white socks. He smirks and leans against the wall next to the door. Sherlock knows John is there, but keeps his eyes closed.

“Why don’t you let me wear any of my jumpers in here?” asks Mind Palace John. “You know how much I like them.”

Sherlock squints one eye open and frowns at John before closing it again.

“You’re in my mind palace. You’ll wear what I like.”

John’s smirk broadens into an all-out grin. He crosses his arms, making his red pants all the more visible.

“You should tell me you have a kink for this outfit. Risky Business, right?”

Sherlock opens his eyes and sighs.

“Surely it is obvious to you by now.”

“Right. Okay, not me. Real me.”

Sherlock’s body stiffens.

“Please stop talking to me. I came here to think.” He closes his eyes again and tries to pretend John isn’t looking at him with those dark blue, and very knowing, eyes. The grin slowly fades from John’s face as he watches Sherlock fidget.

“Why don’t you just ask me what happened?”

Sherlock’s eyes pop open with an intense stare directed at his flatmate. John frowns back at him. The detective’s lips part, but he doesn’t make a sound. His expression remains neutral, but he cannot seem to hide the pain and fear in his eyes no matter how hard he tries. He is going to be a disaster when he looks at the real John.

“You already know, Sherlock,” Mind Palace John continues. “You know it all. You can tell in everything I say and do, but you don’t want me to confirm it. You don’t want to hear me say it.“

Sherlock sits up suddenly, the anguish plain on his face. He runs a hand through his thick curls, leaving them mussed.

“No, I don’t want to hear you say it,” he sounds like he is pleading. “I can’t bear to hear you say it. Everything that monster has done to you.”

“It wasn’t because of you, Sherlock. Sure, it was at the pool, but it hasn’t been since that day he drugged me in our flat. It became an obsession that has very little to do with you.”

“You’re wrong,” Sherlock shakes his head and looks away.

“You know I’m not. I live in your mind. You know. You’re telling yourself.”

“It’s not that simple,” Sherlock mumbles. He hears John’s footsteps coming toward him and soon the man’s hand is lifting Sherlock’s chin gently. He looks up with gleaming silver eyes and meets John’s.

“Isn’t it?”

There is a long pause. The words they have spoken hang thick in the air. John is right. And the real John would agree. Sherlock knows it, so why can’t he stop blaming himself for all that has happened? How can he help John until he does?

John’s eyes suddenly shift from Sherlock to just over and beyond his shoulder.

“Did you hear that?” he asks in a tense voice. A muffled cry floats from far away and hovers in between them. John looks at Sherlock again. “You’d better help me.”

Sherlock’s eyes fly open and he gasps. He is no longer in his mind palace and John’s shouting voice is almost deafening in the real 221B. He leaps off the sofa and runs into the bedroom he shares with his flatmate. Flicking on the lights, he sees John thrashing on the bed. He has seen this before and knows better than to just waltz up and try to wake John. John is a trained soldier and in the throes of a dream spawned by trauma. He is likely to lash out at even the slightest touch.

Cautiously and very slowly, Sherlock approaches, his mind already working out the best way to wake his flatmate. As he nears, John stops moving. Sherlock freezes, holding his breath, and watching John start to shake his head from side to side.

“No. No.”

Sherlock quietly begins his approach again. Suddenly, John is shouting, his voice filled with terror.

“No! Get off! NO!”

Every rational thought instantly vanishes from Sherlock’s mind the moment those words leave John’s mouth. He cannot allow his friend, the man he loves to  **ever** relive the days he spent with Moriarty.

In one swift motion, Sherlock is on the bed with his hands on John’s shoulders. He finds himself shaking John harder than he should be while desperately urging John to open his eyes. Suddenly John grabs Sherlock’s throat and tightens his fingers, swiftly closing his windpipe.  _ No. John! John!  _ Sherlock’s own hands reflexively grasp at John’s, scrambling for escape. John’s eyes are open and fierce, but he is not awake. He doesn’t see his friend, only his enemy.

Knowing there is little he can do to wake him, Sherlock releases his grip on John’s hands and claps them firmly onto John’s shoulders again. With all the force he can muster, the detective sways his body to the right, using all of his six feet of weight to roll off the side of the bed and bring John with him. They land on the floor with a thud. John’s hands fall away from Sherlock’s neck and he gasps in a breath. Sprawled on his back, the detective turns his head to look at his doctor. John is blinking up at the ceiling in surprise. He turns toward him when he feels Sherlock’s eyes upon him.

“What the hell? How did we… What the fuck happened?”

“You had a nightmare,” Sherlock says simply. John sits up straight with a worried look on his face. Sherlock follows suit and reaches for his flatmate, who is already rubbing at his injured shoulder. “Are you all right?”

“Am I all right?” he repeats in a dismissive tone. “Did I hurt you?”

“No.” John’s brow furrows. “You struggled. I chose to wake you in a manner that was not advisable.”

“Did I hit you?” John’s frown deepens.

“No, John, you did not,” he studies John’s doubtful expression and adds, “I would not lie to you.”

“Yes you would.”

“Yes, I would, but I’m not now.”

John looks deeply into Sherlock’s eyes and, against his better judgement, drops the subject. He can see that his friend is telling the truth, but also hiding something. He watches as Sherlock takes his hand and begins to rise, pulling the doctor with him.

“Come to bed with me. You need to rest,“ the detective murmurs quietly. Mere seconds later, the two men face one another on the bed. Sherlock smooths back John’s hair and takes in every inch of his face with fond eyes. John leans into the touch and nips at long fingers when they pass delicately over his lips. The two lay in comfortable silence just watching one another in a kind of reverence.

“Thank you,” John whispers. Sherlock lifts warm eyes to John’s face once more. “For understanding and for...staying with me. You shouldn’t have to deal with all this.”

“Neither should you. Besides, there is nowhere else I would rather be.”

“You should be out with Greg solving cases,” John looks away, ashamed.

“Perhaps,” he cups John’s cheek and turns his head back, “but I want to be here. I will get back to The Work when you can come with me. My place is with you.”

John smiles and places his hand over Sherlock’s, too overwhelmed to speak. He closes the space between them, pressing his lips to his detective’s, wrapping his every feeling in the touch.

When they part, John snuggles up to Sherlock’s body, nuzzling his nose in that long neck. Sherlock encloses John’s smaller frame in his arms and relaxes into John’s embrace. They are mostly quiet, but each makes occasional remarks. John tells Sherlock he will be able to go out on cases in another few days, maybe a week. His shoulder doesn’t hurt that much and the other wounds are healing quite nicely. The detective makes further inquiries into his doctor’s state of mind and improving physical health until he is satisfied that John’s assessment is correct. He has no intention of allowing John to join him prematurely. For his part, John answers every question without getting pissed off about being second-guessed. 

After a few moments of silence, Sherlock allows himself a question that has been much on his mind. A step toward the truth, but he must proceed carefully...for himself and John. 

“What did you dream about?” he asks hesitantly. John’s body goes rigid, every muscle instantly tightened as if bracing for impact. Sherlock swallows and quickly tries to undo the damage. “No, don’t do that. I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay, Sherlock.”

“No. It’s none of my business.”

John lifts his head to look at his rumpled detective with kind eyes. The man stops his every movement. Those eyes that say so much hold him in place. His breaths are coming fast. He licks his lips and tries to calm himself.

“I’m your lover, not just your flatmate and I have no intention of changing that anytime soon. Of course it’s your business. It’s my welfare and it effects you too.”

Sherlock purses his lips and acquiesces, his eyes growing soft. He sighs and smooths back John’s hair. This precious man is the most amazing person Sherlock has ever met. He looks at him with serious eyes. 

“You’re not just my lover.”

John mouth quirks up a little, his eyes shifting back and forth between Sherlock’s. He kisses his pale cheek and snuffles back into his detective’s neck. Long arms wrap around his body again, warm and safe, and they just stay this way. Neither of them has any idea for how long. Slowly, John thinks about what he will say, what he will tell Sherlock. He takes in a deep breath, steeling himself to talk about the nightmares. He knows he still can’t tell Sherlock everything, can’t say the words out loud, but he wants to be as honest as he can.

“I was in that bedroom,” he begins quietly. “Jim was there.”

John notices immediately when Sherlock tenses and visibly flinches. John pulls his head back to meet Sherlock’s eyes and sees what almost looks like repulsion. His own fill with concern and fear needles at him in the back of his mind. It’s a deeply-rooted fear of rejection that John has tried to hide away since the first time Jim touched him. The fear of being seen as damaged, of Sherlock not wanting to be with him anymore.

“What is it?” his voice hitches. He almost can’t say the words, afraid of the answer.

“You called him Jim,” Sherlock replies stiffly. John furrows his brow.

“Did I?”

“You have done all week.”

John blinks slowly and thinks back on the past week.

“I hadn’t realized,” he looks down. “I’m sorry.”

“Why do you do it? You have never called him by his first name.”

“He insisted. He wanted us to be close. Familiar. He would call me…” John stops himself before revealing too much and looks at Sherlock again. His shoulders are tense again and they rise up closer to his ears. Sherlock watches as John seems to bury his neck between them and cringe. “I’m sorry. I won’t do it again.”

“Don’t think on it,” he says with resolve. He tightens his grip on John gently to reassure him. “And, please, don’t be afraid. I would never hurt you. It might concern me, but I am not angry with you. He has done the most unspeakable to you, but he can’t control you anymore. You’re safe.”

John bites his bottom lip, his shoulders grow more relaxed and drop down into a more natural position as he listens to what Sherlock has to say. The detective is right. John can’t let Jim control him anymore. He pushed himself not to be afraid while in captivity and he cannot let fear overtake him now either. He can protect himself and Sherlock will protect him too. Sherlock. He would never hurt him. He would never force himself on John.

John closes his eyes, feeling them beginning to fill with tears. How could he even think it? How could John even think for a moment that Sherlock would hit him or hurt him? He could’ve been angry about John using Moriarty’s first name. He could have been furious and John wouldn’t blame him, but Sherlock would never hurt him for it. Tears slip past John eyelids and he feels Sherlock’s thumbs brushing them away gently. With his emotions warring with one another in his mind, John steels himself and opens his eyes to see caring and worried silver eyes looking back. 

“I...I was afraid...of you. Just now,” John tries to explain. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry I would even think it. God, what has he done to me?”

“John,” Sherlock collects his doctor and pulls him to his chest. He rests his cheek on John’s hair as the doctor covers his own face with his hands and cries. After a moment, the smaller man begins shaking his head.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I...sometimes I don’t know what to do. I’ll be doing so well and then something happens and I see how fucked up even the way I think is now.” He pulls back to look up at his detective. “Am I ever going to be okay again?”

“John, yes,” Sherlock cups his face with his hands and looks deeply into his sad eyes. “You will most certainly recover from this. As I said, you are the strongest person I have met in the whole of my life. But it will take time. A lot of time, and you don’t have to do it alone.”

John’s lips curve into a small smile.  

“I love you, Sherlock. More than anything,” he laughs quietly. “How did I get so lucky?”

“You aren’t lucky, John. It was fated.”

“You don’t believe in fate.”

“True. It is improbable that fate influenced our meeting,” giving John a playful smirk, “but not impossible.”

John bursts into laughter and Sherlock follows. It opens a gateway to some rather inspired flirtation and jocularity. When John is finally asleep again, his mind is at ease and his slumber goes uninterrupted.

***

Sherlock wakes to the warmth of John’s compact little body pressed against his own. He smiles fondly at the back of his doctor’s blonde head before kissing it gently. Tightening his arm where it is draped over John’s waist, he snuggles for a few minutes, relishing in John’s scent and the feeling of their bodies so close. He marvels at the man in his arms who is currently snoring quietly, his lips parted just enough to allow for the noise. He thought he had lost this man and now… This could be the rest of his life. Waking up beside this glorious man.

He kisses John’s head again, carefully lifts his own arm, and rolls out of bed. Sherlock silently pulls on his favorite dressing gown. Looking back at his beloved as he eases the bedroom door closed, his mind pulls up the failed attempts at a proposal he had filed away for later. He collapses back on the door with a soft thud, his shoulders sagging. How can he ask John to be his husband now? Even if his captivity is not Sherlock’s fault, even if he doesn’t and would never blame Sherlock, John is clearly very troubled. To simply ignore that and announce his desire to marry now would be very poorly timed, not to mention incredibly insensitive. Sherlock sneers. James Moriarty should be damned forever more and, if Sherlock ever sees him again, he will send him to hell himself. And then bring him back and kill him again.

Sherlock sighs and steps away from the door. After using the loo, he walks to the kitchen and puts the kettle on to boil. He slowly reaches for the cupboard and opens it, automatically grabbing the box of John’s favorite tea. Deep in thought, he removes two bags from the box and places them in the mugs still on the counter from the day before. He doesn’t notice they both have tiny puddles at their bottoms. He closes his eyes and thinks of John. His carefree smile and how he crinkles his eyes shut when he lets out a deep, genuine belly laugh.

“Oh, John,” he breathes wistfully, “I hope…”

Sherlock’s ears perk up, his head tilting minutely to one side when he hears the flat’s front door open. He quickly recognizes Greg’s distinctive gate walking through the hall. The kettle on the stove begins to whistle, drawing the DI to the kitchen door. Sherlock switches off the heat and takes the kettle off the coil.

“Morning.”

“Good morning, Lestrade. Come to see John?”

“Yes. And give him this.” Sherlock hears the rustle of a Tesco bag. “His favorite tea and some honey.”

Sherlock turns to face Greg, affecting a more cheerful disposition and closing the door on his worries for John. He needn’t bother the DI with them.

“Thank you. We are running low on both. John is still asleep, but do stay. He would want to see you. Would you like some tea?”

Greg smiles with some relief, and surprise at Sherlock’s congeniality, and steps forward to give the bag to the detective.

“That’d be great, thanks,” he shuffles forward to hand over the bag. Sherlock steps into the light to take it. “So how is Jo…Jesus Christ. What happened to your neck?”

The detective furrows his brow and touches his own throat, finding the skin sensitive and pained.  _ Fuck. _ His eyes close slowly, his jaw clenching in anger at himself for not thinking of the injury as soon as he woke.

“It was John,” Greg states in a serious tone. Sherlock’s eyes snap open to see Greg studying him with concern. His eyes dart toward the hall that leads to the bedroom and back to the DI.

“You can’t tell him.”

“What?” he asks incredulously as Sherlock tosses the Tesco bag onto the counter.

“I want to protect him. This will only weaken his resolve.”

Greg puts his hands on his hips and looks at the detective with wide eyes.

“You can’t keep this from him. He needs to know. He would  **want** to know.”

“Why? What purpose would it serve?”

“Oh, okay,” Greg crosses his arms and continues sarcastically. “What are you going to do? Wear your scarf inside the flat? He’ll never see through that. Or maybe dress in turtlenecks every day. You have so many.” Sherlock rolls his eyes and gestures dismissively in Greg’s direction. “Christ, Sherlock. John isn’t stupid.”

“He’ll feel guilty,” the detective announces loudly, “and miserable. Why can I not spare him that?”

“How do you think he’ll react if you don’t tell him? If he finds out on his own?”

Sherlock opens his mouth to respond, pointing an accusatory finger, but he says nothing. He stares at Greg indignantly and lowers his hand. Sherlock’s shoulders sag and he sighs, averting his eyes. John would be furious. Absolutely. Fucking. Furious. The detective rubs the back of his neck, contemplating how best to tell John.

“I take it things aren’t going well?”

“He’s fine during the day. Well, mostly,” he returns his eyes to the DI. “He isn’t quite himself, but has no flashbacks or depression. He believes he is nearly ready to leave the flat and work, but I’m glad he has elected to give himself a few more days.”

“Well, it has only been a week. A full recovery is going to take some time. I’m sure he knows that.”

“Indeed, he does,” Sherlock says with a far away look in his silver eyes. “But that does not lessen his frustration and he is plagued by nightmares. Every night he wakes thrashing and panicked. Sometimes he is in a violent haze before he wakes completely.” His eyes come into focus again and he looks at Greg. “I haven’t given him details, even when he has asked.”

“But he does suspect.”

“Yes. As you said, he isn’t stupid.”

“He knows, Sherlock. Just tell him so you can figure it out together. You work better as a team. God knows what he’ll come up with on his own to protect you.”

Sherlock sighs again and lowers his eyes. Greg makes a good point. John will no doubt settle upon a solution that is completely unacceptable if left to his own devices. Just like Sherlock, he would throw himself under a bus to protect his flatmate. Sherlock’s lips curl. They are quite a pair. Two halves of the same whole.

The detective settles his gaze on Greg once more, trying to read him. How much does he know about John’s captivity? Can he give Sherlock the answers to questions he is afraid to ask John? The questions he wants to spare John. Sherlock bites his lip.

“Has John said anything to you about his captivity?”

Greg hesitates, a leery expression on his face and caution in his eyes. His body language shifts abruptly to something very guarded. Sherlock’s brow raises.

“Well, not a lot. Off and on,” he replies nervously. “Not in detail, but yeah.”

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock shifts his weight, brow furrowed in confusion. Not at all what Greg expected him to say. “Why would he tell you things he won’t tell me?”

Now Greg shifts his weight and very uncomfortably. He wants to help Sherlock. He wants to help them both, but isn’t sure how. What can he even say to this bloody brilliant genius without saying too much? Without betraying John’s trust? He clears his throat and tilts his head to the side.

“Some things are easier to tell a friend than the man you love.”

Silence follows. Sherlock’s eyes suddenly clear, his confused expression gone. He straightens his spine and takes in a quiet breath. Greg’s eyes widen involuntarily, but he hopes he’s kept all other signs of utter dismay off his face.  _ Shit. Shit! He knows. I’ve just told him. Aw, fuck. _

Sherlock’s lips part, but before any words form, John limps into the room in pajama bottoms and a thin cotton t-shirt. He smiles immediately.

“Greg, I didn’t know you were here. Sherlock, why didn’t you wake me?”

“You need your rest.”

“It’s no trouble, John. I have a few minutes. I was just going to wait,” Greg gestures toward the detective and John’s eyes follow. “Sherlock’s making tea. How are you feeling?”

But John does not respond. His smile fades, as does Greg’s when he realizes what he’s done. John’s eyes are fixed on his flatmate’s throat for a very long a few seconds before he raises them to meet Sherlock’s eyes.

“I did that to you.”

It isn’t a question. The detective looks at John with trepidation, searching for the best way to answer. He knows any time spent considering it isn’t necessary. He knows all too well what John would prefer. The delay is more to brace himself for five feet six inches of angry army doctor. Sherlock proceeds cautiously.

“Yes.”

John drops his eyes to Sherlock’s neck again and exhales deeply. Sherlock resists the urge to pull up the collar of his dressing gown or pajamas and cover the bruises. He cannot bear the look of guilt in those deep blue eyes. John, his John, should never have to feel this way for something that is no fault of his own.

“Sherlock, you have to tell me if these things happen. I need to know.” He is looking right into the taller man’s eyes again with an intensity that he hopes will convince Sherlock to actually listen, but a petulant face looks back instead.

“Why? Sherlock snaps. “So you can punish yourself for what is not your fault?”

“So I can try to prevent it happening again,” John insists. He pauses and watches his flatmate closely. He glances at Greg and sees a guilty expression. “This, this isn’t the first time.”

The detective visibly flinches. John shifts his angry stare between him and the DI. Sherlock made the decision to give John the truth. He can’t go back on it now.

“No,” he says quietly, not wanting to meet the doctor’s eyes. John sighs and takes a small step forward.

“Damn it, Sherlock, you have to tell me. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“I wanted to spare your feelings.” 

“Yeah, well, don’t,” John demands angrily.

In the silence that follows, Greg stands stalk still, casting his eyes from one man to the other. He has certainly seen them bicker before, many times. But there’s something different about this. Like both men are being pushed to the limit and are trying desperately to remain in control. Greg shuffles his feet, wishing he had free passage to the door. He clears his throat awkwardly.

“I’ll just be on my way.”

The two men turn their eyes on him, looking as if just realizing he is in the room. John turns fully to face Greg and smiles apologetically.

“No, Greg. Stay.”

“No, I don’t want to intrude. You two haven’t even had breakfast. I should’ve called first.”

“We’ll just have toast anyway,” John insists, waving a hand. “Please, have a seat. Sherlock was making tea, you said?”

“Just about to pour,” Sherlock supplies, turning to get a third mug from the cupboard. “He brought honey and your favorite tea.”

“Thank you, Greg. I appreciate it.” He hobbles to a chair and ushers Greg toward the table as he goes. “I really appreciate everything you’ve done. It’s made this a lot easier. For both of us.”

Greg glances in Sherlock’s direction and eases into a chair uneasily as John seats himself across the table.

“Well, right. Anything I can do, John. You know that.” He fixes John with pleading eyes, suddenly wanting to tell him everything that was said before he entered. John just smiles back and accepts a mug from Sherlock. Greg takes one as well, wishing the detective would leave and tend to some experiment or something. Anything to get him out of the room so Greg can tell John how he betrayed his trust in the blink of an eye. Damn Sherlock Holmes and his damn brain. Greg’s eyes slide to the detective again, willing him away, but Sherlock just leans against the counter and sips his own tea.

“So,” John begins, placing his mug on the table, “have any cases you can tell us about?”

Greg drinks his tea and replies offhandedly.

“New one just this morning. As if I don’t have enough to do, what with you two being…” He stops himself and cringes when the tall detective perks up, his eyes sharpening.

“Oh?”

Greg looks at John timidly, an apology on his face.

“It’s okay,” John cracks a small smile. “I did ask.”

Greg straightens into a more official posture and regards them more seriously.

“All right then. Betsy Stark, 35, found in the alley next to her building around 2am. She was taking her rubbish to the skip. Shot in the forehead. Hands tied behind her back and gagged. Looks like she was on her knees looking up at the shooter.”

“Jesus,” John mutters.

“Witnesses?” Sherlock asks attentively.

“None so far. We’re interviewing people on her floor. Asking anybody in the building if they heard or saw anything. She’d been dead a few hours when she was found. Molly will give us a more precise time of death.”

“Who did found her?” John asks curiously, not noticing how Sherlock bristles at the mention of Molly’s name.

“Another resident. Phil Sidney. Lives on the floor below. He was walking his dog.”

“At two in the morning?”

“He works nights. Walks his dog after he gets home. He went to the skip to chuck its droppings and found Stark.”

“Did he know her?” Sherlock inquires.

“No,” Greg answers. “He didn’t even know she lived in the same building until we told him.”

“Any reason to think someone was after her?” John asks around his mug.

“Not so far. She hadn’t said anything to anyone she knew in the building. Donovan is interviewing her coworkers and friends. She didn’t have any family. “

“Any significant physical evidence at the scene?” Sherlock’s hands are steepled beneath his nose as he gathers information and considers it.

“Not really. Just a single shell from a Browning L9A1,” Greg shrugs. John’s posture stiffens as his brows furrow and he shifts in his chair, catching the eyes of the other two men.

“You think the killer was in the army.”

“Seems likely. It was standard issue. Where do you think it came from?”

John doesn’t respond. Sherlock turns and places his mug in the sink.

“I should be interested to see Molly’s report,” he says with his back to the other two men. There is a certain level of disdain in his voice at the mentioned of Molly’s name. The detective turns to face them and is met with not one, but two sets of surprised eyes. He uncharacteristically fumbles to correct himself. “I mean, you will be interested.”

“Or we could go to the lab. You could help,” John suggests. Sherlock’s eyes widen, his lips part, but the question goes unasked. “It’s okay. I’m up for it.”

Sherlock crosses the room in two long strides and stands at his doctor’s side, his back to Greg. He bends at the waist and rests a hand on John’s good shoulder, meeting his eyes.

“Are you certain?” he asks in a low voice.

“Yeah. I’ll be fine.”

Sherlock studies him a moment. He is not at all sure this is a good idea, but he can tell that trying to convince John otherwise will not end well. He straightens his spine and spins to face Greg.

“Lestrade, we will go by cab.”

“Great,” Greg stands. “I’ll meet you there in a bit. I have a couple things to check up on.”

He casts another apologetic look at John, who just waves him off with a smile on his face.

***

Molly Hooper starts talking as soon the detective and his blogger enter the lab. 

“Great timing. I just finished my report,” she smiles brightly when she sees John limping behind the taller man. John notices how she essentially side steps Sherlock, both of them avoiding eye contact, leaving the open file folder on the counter. Molly greets John with open arms and hugs him tightly as John watches his flatmate start reading the report. When she lets him out of her embrace, the bright smile on her face has not lessened. “You’re looking so much better!”

“Thanks. I feel better.”

“Things are going well? Oh, god!” her smile is gone in a blink, replaced with horror. A hand shoots up to cover her mouth. “Your shoulder! Your..did I hurt you??”

“What? No,” John can’t stifle a short laugh. “No, you’re fine. I’m fine. I mean, not perfect, but I’m good.”

“Oh, thank god. I wasn’t even thinking when I hugged you,” she continues. John notices Sherlock huff and give them a snyde glance. His brow crinkles just a bit before he is distracted by Molly again. She is biting her lip and studying John intently. “So, you’re okay?” 

John huffs out a short breath and furrows his brows in annoyance for a second. He just said he’s fine. Why does everyone insist on asking him that multiple times? Shaking away the irritation, he gives her a somewhat confused smile and answers.

“Yeah, fine.”

“I…I mean for this,” she looks embarrassed. “You know, an investigation.” 

“Oh,” John says steadily, feeling a little childish for his reaction. He continues in a friendly tone. “Yeah, sure. It’s a little sooner than I planned, but I’m good.”

“That’s great. I’m glad. I’m really glad, John.” She is suddenly silent, her eyes fixed on him. He looks back. Her big brown eyes are starting to shine.

“Molly,” John puts a gentle hand on her shoulder. “It wasn’t your fault.”

He had planned on saying more, but is rudely interrupted by a loud snort from their resident consulting detective. John tilts his head to look around Molly, irritated again. Molly watches him nervously, very much in the same way she would watch someone defusing a bomb.

“Sorry, what was that?” John asks in a clipped voice.

“It’s okay, John. Please.”

“No, Molly, I want to know what he meant by that.”

“Oh, come on, John,” Sherlock begins in a chilling voice. “How can you say she isn’t to blame?”

“Sherlock..” John begins in a measured tone, but Sherlock will have none of it.

“She’s the whole reason we thought he was dead. She’s the one who let him into her lab, this very lab, and let him take you. How can you say she isn’t to blame?!” Sherlock is shouting now and, if John hadn’t started feeling dizzy as soon as he mentioned John’s being taken from the lab, he would be shouting right back. Instead, John stumbles forward a little and claps his hand on the counter for support. He’s looking at the floor, but raises his eyes slowly to look at his flatmate. The words sound far away, and John is breathing hard and fast. He feels sick, his limbs heavy, like the room is closing in. 

“I think I’ll just go get a coffee, actually,” he says suddenly in a loud voice. Sherlock stops mid-sentence, and he and Molly both stare at John. He looks from one to the other with glassy eyes. “You want some?”

“Uh..oh, no thanks. I have some,” Molly answers, having no idea what else to say. 

“Right. Sherlock? Coffee?”

Sherlock just stares at him with wide, deducing eyes. John nods and starts turning for the door, but a warm hand on his arm stops him. He looks back at his flatmate, who seems to have risen from his chair and come to stand next to John without moving. John looks at Sherlock’s hand on his arm before lifting his eyes to the man himself.

“You are okay...?“ Sherlock asks in a quiet voice of concern. Feeling more like himself, John ignores pangs of annoyance and smiles reassuringly. Sherlock is just looking out for him and he has been through a lot. They have both been through a lot. John knows full well that Sherlock suffered just as cruelly in his absence.

“I’m fine. I’ll tell you if it’s too much, yeah?” John reassures him. Sherlock gives him a small smile and a short nod.

When John returns to the lab with two coffees, Sherlock is sitting alone at one of the counters. John limps as carefully as he can to his detective’s side and places one of the coffees on the counter. Sherlock hums his thanks and John takes a sip, reading over the man’s shoulder. His eyes slide to view Sherlock on the sly.

“Where’s Molly?” John asks hesitantly, going all in.

Sherlock stops reading and looks up, but not at John. He stares straight ahead across the lab at the opposite wall. John can see his jaw working as the wheels in his head turn. With a very indignant look on his face, Sherlock leans down to look into a microscope stationed before him. John takes another sip and waits. The same moment he finally decides Sherlock is not going to answer him, he hears an indifferent baritone speak.

“She is procuring a case file I need for this case.” 

John doesn’t respond, just finds himself nodding slightly. He looks around and shuffles a few steps away to sit on a high stool. As he watches Sherlock in his element, he starts thinking about everything. He honestly doesn’t blame Molly for anything. When he first saw Jim, he felt the first tinges of betrayal spiraling in his belly, but quickly came to see how the man had manipulated the woman. He has not thought on it since, but Sherlock is so angry. Everytime he sees poor Molly, he tenses up and his eyes fill with hate. Not the kind he reserves for Jim, but it still puts John on edge. And makes him very sad. Maybe if he spoke to Sherlock…

His thought is derailed when the man in question lifts his head and changes slides. His collar brushes back from his marred throat as he moves. Soon his eyes are locked on the microscope again. Regret sits heavily in the pit of John’s stomach as he watches his flatmate. He thinks back on his conversation with Molly, grateful that she didn’t say anything about the bruises. She must have seen them as soon as Sherlock’s scarf came off. 

“Anything interesting?” he asks suddenly, trying to redirect his thoughts.

“Mm. Betsy Stark knew her killer,” Sherlock straightens up and finally looks at John, picking up the coffee cup and taking a drink. “In spite of being bound and on her knees, there is not a single mark on her body, defensive or otherwise.” 

“Maybe she was just trying to stay alive.” 

“I’m sure she was, but even a cooperative victim doesn’t willingly go down on her knees for a stranger. Not quickly enough to keep the attacker from shoving her down and causing abrasions or bruises. It’s too vulnerable a position and does not lend itself well to escape. No, she knew her killer and tried to reason with him, but he didn’t want to listen. Hence, the gag.”

“Why…”

“I will explain when Molly returns,” he goes back to the microscope. John edges his stool closer  and tries to make his voice, his posture as casual as possible.

“Any evidence of sexual assault?” He can barely keep his body from shuddering.

“No,” Sherlock replies without looking away from the slide. “That was not the motivation for this attack. I believe this killer simply likes to kill. John?”

Sherlock had pulled his eyes from the microscope to see John standing before the counter, both hands flat on its surface. His eyes are closed and he is breathing deeply as if trying to regulate it. Sherlock rises and touches John’s shoulder. The doctor jumps and recoils, his eyes wide.

“John, it’s safe,” he says softly, cautiously. “You’re in Molly Hooper’s laboratory.” 

John glances around the room for a moment before his body begins to relax. When he meets Sherlock’s eyes they are wide with shock.

“John,” he reaches for the doctor’s arm, but he pulls away quickly and turns his back.

“Just don’t.”

Sherlock’s eyes grow wider in disbelief. His lips part and he lets his hand drop slowly to his side. Suddenly, he has to know. He knows, but he has to hear it, to ask. His voice hitches in his throat when he speaks.

“John, what did he…”

“Here it is,” Molly is suddenly at Sherlock’s side, offering him a file folder. He does not take it immediately, keeping his eyes on John, whose body is tight as a ripcord. 

Quickly wiping his own face of emotion before turning toward Molly, Sherlock seals his heart behind the protective walls only John has been allowed to enter. For the first time since he opened them, Sherlock wonders if he will ever allow them to open again. He swallows down the hurt and takes the folder, muttering a quiet thank you and facing away from both John and Molly. He is suddenly too exhausted even to hate her.

Molly is so surprised at not having her head bitten off that she nearly drops the mug she’s holding. She turns to look at John, but everything becomes clear before she says a word. She looks nervously from one man to the other. Chewing on her lip, she searches desperately for something to say or do to help ease the tension of whatever took place while she was gone. She faces John fully, concluding that he is more likely to be responsive, but the lab door flies open before she can speak and Greg strides in. Molly almost breathes a sigh of relief.

“What have you got for me?” he chirps.

John, on the other hand, does breathe a sigh of relief as Molly scrambles for the file on Stark and gives Greg a rundown while he skims the pages. John takes the opportunity to shuffle away from everyone and collect himself. He listens to Molly’s words without really hearing them, trying to use her voice to ground himself again. He finally turns to face her and Greg as she wraps up.

“So, no obvious motive then,” Greg is saying. 

“Not that I can see. No trace of assault and no pockets for money in her flannel pajamas.” 

“Right.”

“On the contrary, Lestrade,” the detective turns to all three with eyes of steel. John’s heart clenches with the knowledge that he put that look in Sherlock’s eyes. A look that had slowly faded over their years together, and disappeared nearly completely when they became a couple. Looking into those hard silver eyes, John sees the man he loves more than he ever thought himself capable. The man John has crushed by closing himself off and pushing away with his refusal to trust or accept help and tenderness and love. Suddenly, the air itself feels suffocating.

“This killer’s motive was simply the pleasure of killing.” He hands the baffled DI the folder Molly just gave him and continues. “Two months ago, an Andrew Pritchard was murdered in the alley beside his building. Shot in the back of the head while taking out the rubbish.”

“Says here it was a burglary,” Greg mutters.

“And it was later amended when Pritchard’s wallet was discovered under the skip with nothing missing. The killer was never caught.” 

“So what makes you think they’re connected? They were found all the way across London from each other.”

“Dog hair.” 

The others look at him as though he’s grown another head. Sherlock just manages not to roll his eyes.

“Both have it over the bottom third of their trousers.“

“I just assumed Stark had a dog,” Molly supplies.

“Which was probably the assumption for Pritchard as well, but…”he looks at Greg, whose shoulders sag, and raises a brow. Greg was in her flat, ground zero, if there had been evidence of a dog, he would have seen it. He sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“She didn’t have a dog. Shit.”

“I suggest searching more unsolved cases for the same elements.“

“You think there are more?” the DI asks, his mouth going dry. Molly’s eyes are wide as she rushes to her laptop.

“Almost certainly.”

“But how many more?” John mutters almost without realizing. Sherlock’s lips part just as Molly’s voice fills the room

“Four.” 

They all focus their attention on her as she reads from the screen. Each one moves closer for a better look. 

“All shot in the head, all in alleys outside their buildings of residence. And,” glancing up at each of the men around her, “all with dog hair noted on their trouser bottoms.” 

“Christ.” Greg pulls his mobile and dials.

“The first one was about two years ago,” Molly adds.

“Jesus. A serial killer walking scot-free for for two years,” John remarks in a hushed voice.

“With a Yorkshire Terrier,” Sherlock imparts.

“Donovan, you aren’t going to believe this,” Greg walks toward the door to the lab to put some distance between himself and the others. Knowing Greg will want a copy of the report she just called up, Molly selects prints and heads for the printer in the next room.

John stands before his flatmate with the beginnings of a smile pulling at the corners of his mouth. The uncomfortable tension between them momentarily forgotten in favor of the excitement bubbling around. John’s shorter fingers find Sherlock’s hand and close lightly around his long fingers. The taller man looks down at their hands, amazed at the warmth of John’s touch, and then raises his eyes to John’s.

“You are amazing. You know that, right?” John breathes. Sherlock gazes into his adoring eyes in wonder. “You uncover a serial killer on the loose for two years all because some bloke took a walk.”

Sherlock begins to smile back, anxious to recapture this. This, right now. Everything that has been taken from them and they both want so desperately. But before the smile truly sets in, Sherlock’s mouth drops open instead, his eyes wide with the realization that he has just solved the case. He squeezes John’s hand without thinking.

“With his dog,” the detective mumbles. John’s mind quickly follows and his eyes sparkle as his flatmate inquires. “What kind of dog did Lestrade say he had?

“He didn’t.” John angles his head towards the DI and says loudly. “Greg.”

“Lestrade!”

“Hang on,” Greg mutters into his mobile and looks at the two men, clearly annoyed with the interruption. “What are you on about?”

“The man who found Stark,” John faces him. “What kind of dog did he have?”

“What? What the fuck…”

“What was it?!” Sherlock demands angrily.

“I don’t know,” Greg sighs, his hand on his forehead. Sally Donovan’s voice pronounces something over his mobile and he straightens up to look at them again. “A terrier, all right. A fucking terrier. What bloody difference does it make?”

John swirls around to share an intense look with Sherlock. They instantly spring into action, starting for the door, grabbing their coats on the way. John’s limp is gone, in spite of it not being psychosomatic this time around. Greg watches, completely befuddled.

“Have Donovan meet us at Stark’s building,” Sherlock says quickly from the door.

“What? Why?”

“Because the killer has a Yorkshire Terrier.” 

He disappears behind John and the door slams shut in their wake. Molly walks back in from the adjoining room with the printout to see a speechless Greg Lestrade staring at the door. Glancing around and finding not a trace of the other two men, she looks back at Greg, who seems to be frozen in time. 

“Fuck me,” he says suddenly in disbelief just before sprinting for the door. “Sherlock! Sherlock!”

Molly watches in surprise as Greg dashes out the door, barking orders to Donovan as he goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. First Sherlock has nightmares featuring Jim and now John too. Come up with something more original already! I would, friends, but night terrors and panic attacks can be a totally normal part of emotional trauma after rape, and they're what I've decided to do here. My poor John has so much to work through and thinks he needs to do it all alone. He is most definitely a strong man, but there is no weakness in asking a certain consulting detective help him. Greg is a good foil and friend to both men, but what a difficult position to be in, no?
> 
> It suddenly occurs to me that I didn't mention Jim in this chapter. Needless to say, he never returned to 221C. But he's still skulking around and pissed as hell.
> 
> So...stick around for the end of the case and its aftermath. It's a pleasure to entertain you and thank you again for all your support. It means so very much to me.  
> Jane


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The duo catches the serial killer.  
> Mycroft summons his brother.  
> And...
> 
> Sorry, can't say more without giving away.

Sally Donovan was already in the lobby of Stark’s building when the trio of men arrived. When Phil Sidney, resident of the floor below Stark’s flat and finder of her body, opened the door to his flat, he calmly invited all four in and then bolted instead of closing the door to his flat. Sherlock was the quickest on his feet, following him to the staircase and launching himself after the surprisingly fast older man. He caught up to him around the third floor and had just been hit in the face with a gun when John found them. He might have been there in time to save Sherlock from the blow if his injuries hadn’t slowed him down. 

Adrenaline and white hot fury pump through John’s body as Sherlock sinks to the ground against the wall. Sidney turns just in time to see the compact doctor flying at him. They crash to the ground next to Sherlock with a loud thud. The back of Sidney’s head cracks on the floor, quickly followed by a powerful fist to his jaw. Pain radiates through John’s arm and shoulder, both from the movement and the impact. 

“Fuck!” he curses, pulling himself off Sidney’s unconscious body to sit in between him and Sherlock. Breathing hard from the exertion and grimacing in pain, John tries to make sure none of his stitches are broken and then turns his attention to Sherlock. He starts to get up on his knees and falls back onto his bum, suddenly becoming aware of the intense pain in his thighs.  _ Shit. _

The rumbling on the stairs behind him grows louder and then stops as Greg and Sally catch him up. Both have guns at the ready, but soon holster them when they see the murderer lying limp on the staircase landing. Sally flips him over and cuffs him as Greg summons additional officers covering the building to their location. He puts in a call for medics and then squats down next to John, who is sopping up the blood coming from Sherlock’s temple with the sleeve of his jumper. He nods in acknowledgement and tries to ignore his own pain.

“He okay?”

“He’ll be fine. Mild concussion at most. Maybe not even.”

“Are you okay?” Greg steps closer. John gives him a frown. “You took off like a shot. That can’t have done your body any favors.”

“I’m fine.”

“Right. When the medics get here, they’re looking you over too,” he states matter-of-factly, even as John glares at him. “Make sure none of your stitches have broken. Or anything else.”

“Fine.”

Greg nods over his shoulder at John as he walks toward the approaching officers. John shifts his position and manages to get up into a crouch next to Sherlock, so he can do a better than cursory examination. Once Sally and the other officers are set to remove Sidney, Greg looks back at John to see him swaying ever so slightly. His blue eyes look almost a glassy and he seems to be holding Sherlock’s shoulder for support rather than to check that he’s all right. Greg walks back to the doctor to stand fairly close at his back.

“John?”

Without a word, the man pitches backwards, his face scrunched up in pain. Greg just manages to gain a hold and ease him to the ground. He gets down on one knee in front of John and puts a hand on his shoulder. 

“John! What is it? Did he get a shot off?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” John replies in a calm voice, trying to regulate his breaths. “Just the adrenaline wearing off.”

“And the pain making itself known?”

“With a vengeance,” John grits his teeth as he shifts over and leans his back against the wall next the motionless detective. He tips his head back and smiles a pained grimace at his friend. Greg looks at him with sympathy and pats his good shoulder.

“He, uh,” Greg tips his chin in Sherlock’s direction, “does get into things, doesn’t he? No sense of self-preservation.”

John huffs a laugh and Greg joins right in without hesitation. Before they know it, their chuckles are quietly rising up through the stairwell and growing more merry by the second. When Sally returns, it’s with her hands on her hips and frown on her lips.

“I’m so glad you two are having such a good time.” They are helpless with giggles. Sally rolls her eyes to keep from smiling. She glances at Sherlock and then back to the men before her. “The medics are here. They’re on their way up now.”

“He’ll be mad as hell if we let them strap him to a gurney,” John shakes his head, trying to stifle his laughter. “Let’s try to wake him up.”

“I’ll leave that to you,” Sally responds gruffly. “My face is certainly not the first he wants to see.”

John grins and nods his agreement. Sally finally smiles back and waves a friendly hand at John. She might have helped him with Sherlock anyway, but gets a call shortly thereafter and leaves to help guide the medics to their location. In the meantime, John and Greg manage to rouse Sherlock and get him on his feet, but the detective does not begin to truly grasp what is going on until he is sitting in the back of an ambulance with a bandage above his eye. John, having also received a decent bill of health, steps up to his flatmate and pushes a paper cup filled with hot tea into his hands. Sherlock looks up at him and shrugs the bright orange shock blanket off his own shoulders.

“You should keep that on, you know.”

“Sidney is in custody?”

“Yep,” John grins, making his pink cheeks all the more adorable. Sherlock jerks his chin down in a nod and drinks from the cup in his hands. “How do you feel? You were knocked senseless.”

“As I already told the medics, I am fine,” Sherlock answers indignantly. John is about to give him a cheeky response about concussion when Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh. He looks in the direction of Sherlock’s gaze to see a shiny black car parked just on the other side of the police barricade. He turns back to Sherlock as Anthea climbs out and fixes her indifferent stare on the detective. Only the detective.

“Go ahead,” John touches Sherlock’s shoulder with the tips of his fingers. “Greg will give me a ride home.”

His flatmate sighs again and rises to his feet. He cups John’s cheek with a gentle hand and presses his lips lightly to the smaller man’s. Resting their foreheads together, he murmurs quietly.

“I’ll see you at home. I won’t be long.”

***

When Sherlock steps into his brother’s room at the private government hospital, he is only mildly surprised to see that Molly Hooper is with him. His expression hardens into one of anger and disgust as he watches Mycroft speak to her.

“…and make sure to…”

“He’s here,” she nods at Sherlock The older man turns his head and meets the detective’s eyes. Although he is nowhere near being released from the hospital, Mycroft is doing very well for a man who nearly died two weeks ago. He smiles knowingly.

“Ah, Sherlock, so good of you to come.”

“I had little choice,” his lips are in a tight line. “Anthea informs me she was authorized to cause bodily harm to gain my compliance.”

“Necessary measures, brother mine,” Mycroft comments with a shrewd smile. Sherlock rolls his eyes and stares icy silver spikes into the man. Suddenly, Molly takes a step toward Sherlock, drawing the attention of both brothers.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

“Molly,” Sherlock glowers, making no secret of how much he dislikes her, “do you know why you’re here because I have yet to find out why my time is being wasted. Or do you intend to keep yet another secret?”

“Miss Hooper has kindly offered her assistance in this matter,” Mycroft cuts him off, a sharp smile of irritation on his lips.

“And what matter is that? Locating Moriarty so she can lead him to John?”

“Enough!” Mycroft snaps in a loud voice. They glare at one another for a moment. Molly also glares daggers at the detective. As much as it pains her, she can understand his hatred and makes a point to accept his anger. But this time, he has crossed the line and Molly is furious. Knowing what she does now, she would never help Moriarty sink his teeth into John again, no matter his threats. NEVER.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft begins pleasantly, “please inform John that Moriarty has fled the country. He flew to Madrid and slipped away from my men, but they will find him soon enough.”

“What?! Your incompetents have lost him again? Do you handpick these idiots yourself or appoint another fool to do it for you?”

“My men will find him,” Mycroft announces sharply. “This is nothing more than a delay.”

“And every delay could cost John his life.”

“We have found a number of Moriarty’s London safe houses over the last week,” he ignores Sherlock’s insolence. “He has amassed quite a collection of information and photographs of the two of you.”

“I’ve been running a variety of tests and the same man was with him in at least four different locations, one of which was a flat across the street from 221B. He has an accomplice. Someone who is more of an equal than a henchmen,” Molly supplies, setting aside her anger in favor of helping John.

“Did John see anyone else while in captivity?”

“No.”

“I believe this man is the one who shot me while Moriarty kidnapped John. Did he overhear any conversations?”

“No.”

“I need his name, Sherlock,” he demands, his impatience showing.

“John doesn’t know it!” Sherlock shouts.

“Whoever he is, we think Moriarty left him behind to keep spying on you and John. He could still be in danger,” Molly tells him.

“Of course he’s in danger, you idiot! Moriarty is still roaming free instead of in the ground!”

“SHERLOCK!” Mycroft roars. “We will find both men and they will be dealt with harshly. You needn’t concern yourself with them.”

“Then I suggest you find him quickly,” the detective speaks through clenched teeth. Mycroft fixes Sherlock with an unrelenting stare, scrutinizing his little brother’s form. Instead of snapping at him again, he merely cocks a brow.

“Are you all right, Sherlock?”

“What? Of course I am.”

“Really? And does John make a habit of hitting you in the eye?”

“It was a case.”

“And your throat? Was that a case?” he inquires with a condescending smile. Sherlock simply narrows his eyes and watches Mycroft with a death glare. To his chagrin, Molly chooses this moment to re-enter the conversation, making it two against one. Sherlock scowls immediately. No doubt, Molly told Mycroft about the bruises on his throat. Not that his brother needed to be told. His powers of observation rival Sherlock’s own. The furious detective tunes her out completely in favor of glaring at his elder until she asks a question that cuts him to the bone. 

“John is well-trained and quite strong. Even with his injuries, he could still be very dangerous. Does he have night terrors? Are you always able to get away from him?”

Sherlock stares at her with an ice-cold glare. He is  **not** going to tell her a damn thing. It’s none of her business. John is none of her business. She gave up the right to care when she betrayed him and delivered him to Moriarty.

“Sherlock,” Mycroft murmurs in a tone Sherlock has only heard from his lips one other time in his life. He closes his eyes against the memory. “Sherlock, we are only trying to help.”

After a moment of silent reflection, Sherlock reluctantly answers Molly’s question in a dull voice.

“Yes. So far. With difficulty.”

“One of these times will be your last, Sherlock,” Mycroft warns. “John Watson is dangerous and he must be neutralized.”

“And what do you propose?” he rounds on him and demands sarcastically. “Kill him?”

“Of course not. Don’t be ridiculous, Sherlock. You simply sedate him each night to prevent violent outbursts. Miss Hooper has procured the equipment you will need.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

“I am going to put things in place to protect you and I will not be told no.”

“I will  **not** drug my boyfriend!”

“Boyfriend?” Mycroft’s lips curl. His expression lies somewhere between disgust and amusement. “Is that what you’re calling him? How…quaint.”

Sherlock advances toward Mycroft, absolutely furious.

“Moriarty sedated John any time it suited him. I will not put him in the same position. I  **will not** be James Moriarty!”

“Sherlock, stop being a child and accept that there are times in which the undesirable is the only way!”

“What about muscle relaxants?” Molly interjects loudly. Two sets of eyes glare at Molly, sending a tingling warmth to her cheeks, but she doesn’t shrink back. With her shoulders back, she returns the icy stares with clear and determined eyes.

“Muscle relaxants?” the elder Holmes bursts incredulously.

“They’re fast-acting and can be administered only when you need them instead of every night. Once you’re safe, you can talk John through it and no one is hurt. But you have to be careful to give him exactly what I tell you.”

There is a pause while Sherlock considers her proposal. It is far better than all-out, constant sedation, but still feels too much like a violation of trust.

“No.”

“ **Sherlock!** ”

“Do you have a better suggestion?” Molly asks sternly. Silence. “Sherlock, you have to do something. It’s not just for your own safety, you know.”

The detective meets her eyes. She’s right and he knows it. And he hates her for it. John wants something like this, some way to protect Sherlock. Maybe this is it. Or at least, the best solution for the time being.

“She’s right, Sherlock. This is for John too. In spite of how it may seem.”

Sherlock’s eyes shift from one to the other. Mycroft wears the usual emotionless mask of condescension, but Molly… Molly looks worried, empathetic, and somewhat hopeful. The detective glances away, unable to look at them straight on when he accepts the plan. It all feels so wrong, but what else can he do?

“Acceptable,” he mumbles. For a moment, no one moves. Molly and Mycroft are both relieved that Sherlock has agreed, but also wonder if he will actually follow through when the time comes.

“Right then. I have everything you’ll need,” Molly pulls a small paper bag from a satchel next to her feet. “Give him ten milligrams. It won’t take much.”

Sherlock takes the bag and turns to leave, but stops at the sound of Mycroft’s voice. There is an edge to it that he hasn’t heard since Mycroft left for university.

“Sherlock. Take care of yourself.”

“Of course.”

***

Meanwhile, Greg frowns at John’s back and frantically searches for the right words. He was more than happy to give him a ride back to 221B, but he had intended on talking to John about his own unintentional admission to Sherlock. Instead, the topic of conversation has been entirely different, though not at all unexpected. He could tell John was very tightly wound after Sherlock left the scene and was trying his damnedest to appear at ease. In spite of this, Greg is still taken aback by just how quickly the spool started spinning once they were safe within the walls of the flat.

“John, jesus, just try to calm down,” he says lamely.

“Calm down? How the fuck can I calm down?! I just freaked out right in Molly’s lab all because I asked if Stark was…” he stops himself and closes his eyes momentarily, fighting to push the sound of Jim’s voice down deep into the dark spaces of his mind. “I shouldn’t have said anything. I should’ve just left it.”

“It’s only been a few days, John. You’re going to be sensitive to certain topics and crimes,” Greg moves closer, extending his hands toward John. “You can’t expect the world to change in a day. It’s already a bit better, it is, but it takes time.”

John opens his eyes and sees Sherlock’s hard, emotionless silver eyes glaring back at him as though he has destroyed the fragile man beneath and he’s locked him away from John forever. John’s knees feel weak under the soul crushing ache in his chest at the thought. But then his lips feel the gentle press of Sherlock’s when he kissed him tenderly just before leaving with Anthea. Maybe he hasn’t fractured their hearts. God, how he wants Sherlock. Right now. In his arms, under his lips. And he’ll tell him everything, trust him with every agonizing detail. Consequences be damned.

The sound of someone saying his own name finally registers and his mind begins to focus on the here and now. The silver irises he could see so clearly slowly change to dark brown and he finds himself gaping at Greg Lestrade’s worried face.

“Hey, you okay?” he is saying, a comforting hand on John’s shoulder. 

“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll be fine.”

“It’ll help once you have those test results back. Then you’ll know you’re clean and don’t have to worry about protecting Sherlock from that anymore. Help put your mind at ease,” he looks hesitant and John has no doubt he is not going to like the next question. “How are you healing? I mean, are you okay? With your.... injuries?”

“Yes, Greg, I know what you’re referring to,” John bites out the words. His fingers immediately pinch the bridge of his nose and closes his eyes when he sees the DI’s cowed expression. He lets his hand drop and takes a step toward his friend. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I know you’re just looking out for me, I know.”

“It’s okay, John. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s none of my business.”

“No, it isn’t, but it’s okay. Who else is going to ask after me?” John gives him a half-hearted smile. The corner of Greg’s mouth curls up slightly. “I’m fine. Everything is going just fine. Fortunately, most of the damage was superficial. Stool softeners and close observation, which I am well-suited for, and everything should be fine in a week or two. No internal injuries. I’m saying too much, aren’t I?”  

“No,” Greg says quickly, trying to mask his discomfort. “No, it’s fine. I did ask and I’m glad to know you’re doing well.” He gives John’s shoulder a gentle squeeze. “You see it’s all about small steps, but I guess you already know about this kind of recovery.”

“This is completely different,” John mutters, shaking his head, every muscle in his body tensing. “It’s nothing like after the army.”

“No, I’m sure it’s not. It’s not really you that you’re worried about.”

“No,” John shakes his head again and runs a hand through his hair. “We’re… we’re together. We sleep together, but I keep him at arm’s length. We kiss, but nothing too intense. He has to wonder why. Christ, he probably knows already. And then today in the lab… I shut him out. I was struggling and he knew it and I turned my back.” John throws up his hands, knocking Greg’s from his shoulder, and then clutches them to the back of his head. He stares at the ceiling in complete and utter frustration. The DI watches, empathy and worry etched onto his face. “God, I just yelled at him this morning for keeping something from me and I’m doing the same fucking thing to him. You were there!” he looks at Greg. “And why? To spare his feelings. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I’m really just fucking scared.” He lets his hands fall to his sides. “Jesus Christ. I am such an asshole.”

Greg sighs and replaces his hand on John’s shoulder, adding its mate to John’s left shoulder gently.

“John, I’ll tell you the same thing I said to Sherlock this morning. Tell him. Talk to him. Work it out together. You’re a team. He can help you figure this out and find peace.”

“Tell him? How can I tell him?” John quips, becoming bold and sarcastic. “ ‘You know, Sherlock, a funny thing happened. Your arch-enemy, probably the man you hate most in the world? Yeah, that bastard. Well, he fucked me.’ “ They study each other in silence before John continues sadly, having lost his steam. “ ‘Small world, eh?’ How can I tell him that?”

Greg pats his good shoulder and gives him a small smile of reassurance. “You’ll find a way.”

***

About an hour after Greg left the flat, John hears the front door open from where he sits on the sofa with a book. He looks up and calls out to his flatmate, but falls silent when the sounds of footsteps reach his ears. Not his flatmate. Women’s shoes and definitely not Mrs. Hudson’s. He rests his hand on the sofa, close to where he has his Sig tucked between the cushions. John keeps his eyes on the door. The tension in his body only intensifies when Irene Adler saunters in with a pleasant, but knowing expression on her face.

“Hello, John. I see you’re doing much better.”

“What do you mean?” his eyes narrow and study her suspiciously. He grimaces as the answer comes to him. “You were there.”

“Sherlock asked me to help, yes. Is he here?”

“No.”

“You don’t like me,” she offers, smiling wryly.

“No, I don’t,” he replies bluntly.

She walks over to the sofa in her perfect walk, swishing her perfect hips just like she’d done so many times during Scandal in Belgravia. She fixes John with her damn sultry eyes.

“Why not?”

“Why not?” John snorts. “Let’s see. For the record, I never have,” She puckers her lips into a pout that would make other men drool, “but what fueled the fire? Maybe your trying to seduce Sherlock when you were stuck in that cave. You told him I’d never know.”

“You wouldn’t have,” she states matter-of-factly.

“Oh, fuck you.”

Irene smiles, thoroughly amused, until a thought occurs. She shifts her weight to one foot and puts a hand on her hip. 

“Is that all he told you?” she tilts her head and smiles coyly. “Because there’s more.”

John closes his book, places it on the sofa, and stands.

“I won’t listen to this.“

“I think you’ll want to.” John stares at her icily. “It’ll make quite a difference to you.”

“Nothing you can say will ever make a difference to me.”

“You’re wrong,” Irene returns playfully.

“Get. Out,” John growls through clenched teeth.

“He wants to marry you.”

The world suddenly stops and shrinks down to the few feet between himself and The Woman. He studies her with wide eyes, every detail, just like Sherlock talks about after a case, the way to see into a person’s mind, and Irene Adler is not lying. She takes a step toward him and starts speaking quickly, a look on her face like she isn’t sure why but she can’t stop herself.

“He’s so in love with you, John. Completely devoted. There’s no changing his mind and there’s nothing he wouldn’t do for you.”

John doesn’t respond. He can’t. He stares at her, agog. He probably looks the fool, but he can’t make himself comprehend what she said. She seems startled too, a look of shock on her delicate features. 

The silence is broken by the open and close of the flat’s front door. Moments later, Sherlock strides in only to stop immediately at the scene before him. Tension hangs so thickly in the air he almost expects to see a fog. He cocks a brow and his eyes shift from his doctor to The Woman. Suddenly, Irene turns her clear eyes on him and adopts her usual posturing.

“Hello, Sherlock,” she follows his silver gaze to John. “John and I were just having a little chat about old times.”

The doctor says nothing. His dark blues are locked on his flatmate. His expression is unreadable.

“Were you?” Sherlock inquires suspiciously.

“Yes,” Irene flutters forward to the detective, “but that’s neither here nor there. I’ve come to say goodbye. I’ve repaid my debt. You have your John and the villain has fled.”

“Madrid.”

“Well then,” she smiles broadly, “that is the last place I shall ever go. As I told you before, I mean to never see James Moriarty again.”

“Indeed,” the detective pauses to look at her and a glimmer of something flits over his face.  “Goodbye, Irene, and thank you. I wish you well and hope to never cross your path again.”

“You are priceless, Sherlock Holmes! And you were doing so well at being charming too,” she announces with a hooting laugh. “You just can’t help yourself, can you?”

The detective merely shrugs. She smiles at him smugly and then steps close to John, unexpectedly kissing his cheek.

“Goodbye, John,” she whispers. “Don’t break his heart.”

She pulls back quickly, bids them both a final farewell, and disappears into the hall. They hear the front door open and close, her footfall growing quiet as she trots down the stairs. Sherlock faces his doctor again with a perfectly casual, but breathtakingly beautiful expression.

“There’s take away in the kitchen. I stopped on the way home. Shall we bring it in here and watch a film?” He raises a brow, taking notice of the fact that John hasn’t said a word. “John?” he frowns and steps closer. “John, are you all right?”

Without a word, John closes the gap between them in three awkward steps, wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s face and covering those delicious lips with his own. He kisses him deeply, his tongue hot and insistent. A still very startled Sherlock opens his mouth and John licks inside. He wants to feel him, taste him, every part of him. Sherlock’s arms surround John’s body and settle on his bum, firm and gloriously round. Their tongues wind around one another, their lips locked together. Sherlock’s head whirls. This is the most intense kiss they have shared since John’s return and neither man feels he can get enough to be satisfied. 

Sherlock sneaks in a gasp of breath and John takes the opportunity to suck on Sherlock’s lower lip. As if of their own volition, John’s hands have pushed Sherlock’s suit jacket off his shoulders and down his biceps. The detective reluctantly releases John’s bum with a displeased groan, letting his arms swing back. The jacket falls to the floor. John’s fingers make quick work of Sherlock’s shirt buttons as he kisses and sucks on that beautiful pale column of neck. Sherlock replaces his hands on John’s bum, as John pushes the shirt from his flatmate’s shoulder to nip at his collarbone. Sherlock grasps John’s ass tightly, thrusting their hips together. A moan escapes John’s lips, hovering warmly over Sherlock’s. Slowly, Sherlock nudges his lover toward the bedroom.

John backs along with him all the way through the hall and doorway. A barely noticeable niggling feeling pokes its way toward the front of John’s mind, but falls back again before he can even realize it’s trying to get his attention. Everything is lips and kisses and sighs and hands and hard,  **so hard** . John doesn’t even have time to realize how he surprised he is that this is even possible after everything Jim did to him. And then they are on the bed. John hurriedly rolls them over and rests over the detective, breaking his lips away from Sherlock’s and kissing along his jawline, down his neck to his chest. Sherlock shivers as John’s lips caress his stomach. Sherlock’s hands in are John’s hair, brushing his fingers in between the locks, but making no attempts to control John’s actions. No attempt to control. John is free. Sherlock will let him be free and love him with all his heart and John wants so much to marry him. 

With fumbling fingers, John opens Sherlock’s flies and pulls his trousers, along with his pants, all the way down to his ankles. John settles between his legs and dances his tongue along a pale inner thigh. His mind is free of everything but Sherlock. Beautiful Sherlock, who shivers again under his touch. John inhales deeply, breathing in the scent that is uniquely Sherlock’s. It surrounds him and is so familiar, safe. His heart swells in this feeling he has not known since before his kidnapping. Suddenly desire takes over completely, the niggling feeling banished. 

John grabs Sherlock’s hips roughly and takes him in his mouth. He wants him, all of him. He wants this like never before. After the days of suffering, of thinking he may never see this man again and fighting off his fears to keep his mind from believing it. God, yes! Sherlock gasps and tries, nearly in vain, to not thrust himself down John’s throat. John bobs and licks and sucks hard. He nips at the head of Sherlock’s cock and then takes its length far into his mouth again. A deep rumble vibrates in Sherlock’s chest and his head falls back, eyes closed. John continues with reckless abandon. Sherlock moans and squirms beneath him.

“God, John,” he whispers urgently, breathlessly. “John…I’m…John!”

He comes like a rocket, completely undone. When Sherlock’s body relaxes at last, John lets Sherlock slip out of his mouth and rolls off of him in a heap. They lay side by side, panting and breathing hard. 

“Good god, John.”

No sooner has he heard those words than reality comes screaming back into John’s mind and he suddenly breaks out in a cold sweat. What the fuck was that? After everything he’s been through, how the hell did he just suck off the lithe man next to him without completely freaking out when he had a panic attack in Molly’s lab only a few hours ago?! 

“I’m sorry,” John pants, shaking his head. ”I don’t know what came over me.”

He runs a hand through his damp hair and tries to think while Sherlock stretches next to him and turns onto his side to look at John with affectionate silver eyes. John’s mind is whirling. He was clearly in a completely different state of mind in the lab. With Sherlock, just now, his thoughts were ONLY on Sherlock and his intense feelings for Sherlock, only those things. It was like he didn’t even remember the repeated assault and battery. He’s in his own home, safe with the one man who means more to him than anything else in the world, rather than in a cold and clinical laboratory, trying to hide his feelings from everyone. The very lab he was kidnapped from in the first place, as Sherlock so callously pointed out. Can all of that really make such a difference? Is his mind capable of that kind of compartmentalization?

“I don’t mind,” Sherlock’s body is warm against John’s side. He looks at his detective, who kisses his lips softly. “Not at all.” He kisses him again. John leans into Sherlock and teases his mouth open. Their tongues twining together, John sighs. This is perfect. It’s exactly what he was afraid he would never be able to do again without thinking of Jim Moriarty. John isn’t completely sure why he feels the way he feels right now, instead of like a victim reliving past trauma. He keeps trying to work it through in his mind, even as Sherlock’s kisses distract him. Maybe because he didn’t do this with Jim? Maybe because his feelings for Sherlock are so strong they erase all of Jim’s words and deeds from his mind, if only for a moment? John has no idea, but right now, he feels safe and happy and he wants it to last forever. Unfortunately, it does not.

“I missed you so much,” he whispers as soon as their lips part.

“And I, you,” Sherlock’s deep baritone drifts into the air. The detective looks at his soft-eyed flatmate as he traces his finger along John’s still clothed chest and then down to his belly. John giggles softly as those long fingers glide by his navel. Sherlock inches his way down until his head rests on John’s shoulder. The smaller man feels deft fingers pulling up the bottom of his jumper. John’s eyes blink open wide as he looks at his flatmate in fear, that apprehensive feeling back in full force and screaming in his ears.

“What are you doing?”

“It’s my turn,” Sherlock smiles devilishly. “Or shall I say, your turn?”

“NO!” In a panic, John scrambles away from Sherlock quickly, putting as much distance between them as he can.

“John?” Sherlock sits up in a flash, his face full of confusion and hurt. John claps a hand on the back of his own neck, the other outstretched toward his flatmate

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t have done that. I…”

“What’s wrong?” Sherlock’s eyes are full of concern, but he doesn’t try to move closer to John.

“Nothing.”

“This has to do with Moriarty, doesn’t it?” Sherlock almost rolls his eyes as soon as the words are out of his mouth. It’s a stupidly obvious question and he feels like an idiot for asking it.

“It has bloody everything to do with…” John stops abruptly and stares at Sherlock with frightened eyes, afraid of what he might have said.

“John, what is it? What happen…”  Now it’s Sherlock’s turn to stop. He looks at John carefully, still not certain he can bear to hear the answer from John’s own lips. The air hangs heavily between them and they simply look at each other in silence. Just when Sherlock thinks he can stand it no longer, John straightens his spine and speaks.

“Look, we should have dinner and get to bed early. It’s been a long day,” he starts toward the edge of the bed, still talking. “I’m clearly a danger to you. I’ll sleep in my old room.”

Sherlock gapes at him.

“John, no,” he grabs John’s good arm. “Please stay with me.”

“Sherlock, I’ve hit you. I’ve strangled you. I could have killed you at any time. How many chances do you want to give me to succeed?”

“You don’t know that will happen,” he watches John as his shoulders drop and he looks at him in dismay. Sherlock takes his hands and leans in close. “You won’t kill me. You won’t. You love me and that will always stop you.” John looks at him, eyes full of doubt. “It has stopped you every time to date.”

“Sherlock, that is utterly ridiculous. It makes absolutely no sense. Are you even listening to yourself?”

“It makes perfect sense,” he replies haughtily.

“No, it doesn’t!” John throws up his hands in frustration. “You’re not even thinking logically anymore. You’re thinking like a man in love.”

Sherlock pops up on his knees and crawls to John. He looks into John’s deep blue eyes and continues in a calm voice, as he retakes John’s hands and strokes them with his thumbs.

“I am a man in love, examining all of the evidence, and coming to the logical conclusion,” he shakes his head slowly. “You won’t kill me, John.”

John studies his flatmate for a good minute, knowing he will never change Sherlock’s mind. Finally, he lets out a deep sigh and shakes his head. 

“Okay. Fine. You may have a point,” he leans forward and gets right up under Sherlock’s nose. “But that doesn’t mean you’re right.”

Sherlock crosses his arms over his chest in a huff. John just gives him a look and starts toward the edge of the bed again. Sherlock scrambles against the trousers around his ankles and nearly tumbles off the bed, but just keeps his balance and grabs John’s arm again.

“John, wait!”

“What, Sherlock?” John asks shortly.

“Trust me. Please. When have I ever been wrong?”

“You’ve been wrong before,” John turns his head to stare at the taller man with penetrating eyes. “You’ve been wrong about me before.” 

“Fair point, but I’m not now,” he insists after a moment of silence. John purses his lips and tries to jerk his arm away. Sherlock clutches tighter and tries to tamp down the desperation creeping into his brain. “Please, John, I can’t bear being away from you.”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t. I’ll set my alarm and check on you every hour for the concussion,” John looks away, struggling with his emotions and unable to face Sherlock when he has that look on his face. Sherlock swallows hard, preparing himself to say something he had hoped he would not have to confess.

“I don’t want to let you out of my sight, John,” he murmurs quietly. John relaxes his arm and faces the detective. Sherlock takes a deep breath and meets John’s eyes, hoping the salty tears in the corners of his own aren’t obvious. “The truth is, I am petrified that Moriarty will take you again as soon as I blink. I don’t want to leave your side. At least, not now.”

John’s shoulders sag. He searches Sherlock’s shining silver eyes, his own starting to fill. Sherlock cups John’s face in his hands, parts his lips, and kisses him. It is soft and sweet. Long, gentle thumbs brush away the drips dragging down John’s cheeks. He raises his own fingers to touch Sherlock’s pale cheeks and finds them warm and wet. He tilts his head to deepen the kiss and slides one hand around to hold his flatmate’s nape. The kiss continues for what feels like hours, days. The rest of the world melts away around them. When their lips finally part, John lets out a shaky breath.

“Okay. We can try it. But if I come after you, don’t be afraid to hit me. Do whatever you have to to get away.”

“I will.” After a quick kiss, the corners of Sherlock’s mouth turn up. “I’m glad you agreed. I would have sneaked into whichever bed you were in anyway.”

“Sherlock!” John scolds, but can’t help smiling and gives him a little shove. “Oh, you are a cheeky bastard.”

“It’s why you love me.”

“And a smart ass too.”

Sherlock giggles and gently tackles John to the bed for another kiss. Then he pulls back and looks at John sincerely.

“I love you, John Watson. Nothing will ever change that. Nothing that has happened or...”

“Shh,” John shushes, still not ready to talk about or know without a doubt the extent of Sherlock’s knowledge on his captivity. As he reaches up to run his fingers through Sherlock’s soft curls, Irene’s words echo in John’s ears and are quickly joined by Greg’s.  _ Tell him. Talk to him. He wants to marry you. _ He looks into Sherlock’s eyes, his lips parting, but stops his voice. Not yet. He hasn’t the courage. The hardened army doctor hasn’t the courage to talk to the man he loves. The one man who is his whole world. John bites his lip hard to keep from cursing himself out loud.

“I love you, Sherlock,” John says after swallowing hard, swallowing his frustration, he looks at Sherlock with soft eyes. “I can only hope you understand how much.”

If he can tell what’s going on in John’s mind, the detective doesn’t show it. He smiles and kisses the doctor again.

“I do,” he hugs John tightly and then sits up to redress himself. “Come on. Let’s have dinner.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yas! I had fun writing this chapter. I mean, some of it maybe not, but most of it. I didn't realize it was going to be so long. It just sort of happened that way. I hope you all enjoy it!
> 
> Now, I know the BJ scene could be pretty controversial to some of you. I acknowledge that it has been a very short time since John's rape and realistically, not many people in his situation would find themselves in another sexual situation so quickly. What I'm trying to show here is how safe he feels with Sherlock and how much they love each other and how that love helps them both. They truly are two halves of the same whole and that means complete security and trust. In this specific case, those feelings are so strong for John that his hurt is taken away and he is free to be with Sherlock the way he wants to be again, even if only for a moment. I hope that makes sense, even if it's an old romantic notion. If not, please remember this is a work of fiction and as real as I want it to be, sometimes it may fall short. (But hopefully it's still good! ;D ) 
> 
> Now, a little house-keeping. I'd like to draw your attention to the number of chapters again. It hasn't changed, but I think it just might before this is all over. It's likely to become eleven or twelve chapters. I'll keep you updated. I'm not sure if this will continue to happen in subsequent parts or not. We'll all see together. If nothing else, it just gives you more chapters to love. :)
> 
> A big thank you to all of you for the love and support. Your comments are priceless and honestly help me when I'm editing new chapters. A special thanks to my good friend PatPrecieux. Without knowing it, you have prompted me to pay close attention to a certain relationship, one that I overlooked when I first wrote this saga. <3
> 
> Thanks again to you all and happy reading. Chapter 8 should be out soon.  
> Much love, Jane


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, friends. No spoilers this time.

Later that night, both men have donned their pajamas and are preparing for bed. Sherlock walks in the bedroom and takes off his dressing gown. He watches John with an eagle eye as the shorter man looks at him and sighs.

“I don’t think this is a good idea. You’re still recovering from a mild concussion. If I come after you, you may not be able to get away for that reason alone.”

“You are a man of strong will, John. Why do you doubt yourself so?”

“Because I’ve attacked you nearly every night since you brought me home. Seems good enough reason to me.”

“I trust you, John. Does that mean nothing to you?”

“Of course it does. It means everything.”

“Well then?”

John smiles a little and pats the bed next to him. Sherlock climbs on and looks at John for a moment. John, full of anxious energy, has already closed his eyes and is trying to fall asleep quickly. His body is tense and Sherlock can see his jaw muscles working. The detective’s lips curve into a crooked smile as he brushes the fringe on John’s forehead. The man shivers, but keeps his eyes closed and turns his head fractionally away from Sherlock. Taking the hint, the detective flicks off the bedside lamp and settles in next to his doctor, putting his arm around John’s waist and tucking his head on John’s good shoulder gently.

“Okay?” he whispers.

“S’fine.”

Sherlock smiles softly and watches the slow rise and fall of John’s chest. While his breaths are fairly smooth, his muscles are still hard like iron. John needs to relax if he expects to get any sleep. Sherlock tilts his chin up so John’s ear is next to his own lips and nibbles. John jumps a little at the touch, but does not object. Sherlock’s lips curve and he moves on to John’s neck, kissing and licking in all the ways he knows John’s loves.

“You’re not being fair at all,” his doctor murmurs, a smile spreading across his face. He turns his head to look at the detective.

“I’m just trying to help you relax,” he purrs in a low voice.

“Sure. Just relax,” John raises a brow. Sherlock lets out a deep chuckle that pools low in John’s belly. “You are truly evil.”

Their arms are around each other in an instant, bodies turned to face one another. Their lips press together, mouths open. John’s tongue dances across Sherlock’s, followed by a playful scrape of teeth, something he knows his flatmate cannot resist. Soon both men are wrapped up in the moment, driven by desire for one another. The desire to be close again, to be the way they were before all of this, to be rid of Moriarty forever. Their minds have somehow temporarily erased all of their fears and all that has happened, and neither of them wants to stop. They have been torn apart, tortured by the most gruesome of men, their souls ripped from one another. Each of them now drowns in the desire to be whole again, to be together, and most of all, for everything to be normal again.  

In one swift movement, Sherlock is on top of John, kissing everything he can touch while his fingers move deftly from one button on John’s borrowed pajama shirt to the next. He pushes the shirt open and sets to work on John’s chest. John watches with dark eyes, running his fingers through those soft curls, not a thought in his mind but the man atop his body. Sherlock kisses and licks John’s belly, brushing dangerously close to the light brown curls that lead down into his pajama bottoms, only to swoop back up and lightly bite one of the smaller man’s nipples. John shivers and gasps, his whole body tingling with a desire that moves straight to his groin.

As Sherlock works his way downward again, clearly with no intention of stopping, cold hard reality snaps open in John’s head like Pandora’s box. Jim. His hands. His black eyes. His salacious grin. Touching and… The tests! John doesn’t have the results and he would never forgive himself if Sherlock contracted something from him. As quickly and forcefully as he can, John places his hands on Sherlock’s biceps, he pulls his lover back up until their faces are even again. Then he rolls them onto their sides and meets Sherlock’s concerned eyes sadly. They are searching his own, filled with worry and questions. John closes his eyes and speaks quietly.

“I can’t. I’m sorry. I just can’t.” He expects Sherlock to respond, to ask him questions, but there is only silence. He opens his eyes to see Sherlock looking at his face, drinking him in, an empathetic expression coloring his countenance. John can see something else too, hidden in those intelligent silver eyes. Anger and sadness? _ Fuck. _

“I understand,” the detective utters so quietly John almost doesn’t hear him. He tucks John’s head under his chin and holds him close.

“I don’t think you do. Not completely.”

“Mm.. Perhaps not, but more than you know. And I know you will tell me everything you want to when you are ready. Until then…” he kisses John’s hair. “Try to get some sleep.”

***

Sherlock’s eyes open around 2am to the rumble of a thunderstorm outside. Raindrops fall loudly on the roof and pepper the windows with all the speed of a machine gun. But while it is noisy, that isn’t what woke him. A certain ex-army doctor squirms and mumbles next to him. His body twitches suddenly, this way and that, sweat pouring off his brow. Sherlock sits up and flicks on the bedside lamp for a better look.

“No. No.”

Sherlock reaches for him cautiously and touches his arm gently, but firmly. His only intention is to wake John from this nightmare as quickly and carefully as possible. He weighs the danger, but deems ending John’s suffering more important than avoiding a punch. However, he is not expecting the full fury of the smaller man’s blows, catching his jaw with a fist at an awkward angle. And then John is on him, his eyes burning with rage.

Showing no mercy, John positions his hands around Sherlock’s throat in a way he knows would break his neck. There is no time to do anything else. In one swift movement, Sherlock punches his doctor in the face and grabs the syringe he’s hidden on the headboard table while John is distracted. Quick as he can, he grabs John’s arm and presses it elbow-down onto the mattress. The doctor’s veins pop against his skin, the perfect hunting ground for a former drug addict. The syringe is in one in seconds, the plunger deployed, and the syringe removed from John’s arm. 

For a few frightening seconds, nothing happens. And then John’s hands are clutching at Sherlock’s throat again, squeezing and pulling menacingly. The detective tosses the syringe toward the headboard table and struggles with all his might, making it just hard enough for his doctor to keep hold. Sherlock doesn’t want to hit him again, the bruise developing on his cheekbone already needling Sherlock’s heart. Thunder cracks suddenly and everything changes in that split second. John freezes for a moment, blinks his eyes slowly, and drops like a bag of rocks onto Sherlock’s body. His limbs twitch under the effect of the drugs. Sherlock carefully inches his way out from under John and rolls him onto his back. He crouches on his knees next to his flatmate and looks him over. Contrary to what he expected after the mild pain of the injection and collapse onto his face, John is still asleep and his nightmare continues.

Sherlock opens his mouth to speak, but John starts talking quickly instead. He looks right at Sherlock, his eyes filled with outrage and fear, but he doesn’t see him. 

“You fucking bastard! What have you done to me?!” John’s voice sounds like agony. It doesn’t match the anger of his words and sounds more hopeless than wrathful. As his limbs continue to twitch minutely, John continues speaking, his voice becoming ever more desperate. “Make me. Fucking make me! Come one! What’s stopping you? Kill me, you bastard. It’s what we both really want!” 

Sherlock stares. He feels as though his heart has stopped. Just stopped. He has no idea whether this is only part of a dream or actually happened in reality and Sherlock cannot bear the thought that it might have. He must free John from this torture. Right. Now.

“John,” shaking his shoulders firmly. “John, wake up.”

“I would rather die,” John responds through clenched teeth. “Just kill me, you bastard. Don’t… Don’t take me.”

“John!”

“I WILL NEVER LOVE YOU!!”

Sherlock leaps back in shock at the violence and rage of the outburst. Before he can react, John’s expression changes from one of outrage to horror.

“Stay away from him!” He bares his teeth and his body is twitching uncontrollably now. He is suddenly breathless and gasping for air, his voice quiet and scared. “Sherlock.” The detective starts at his own name. “I’ll do whatever you want. Just leave Sherlock alone. Please, I’ll do anything...anything you want.”

Sherlock’s face crumbles, his soul crushed. What John endured, he did for him. To protect him. 

Fighting back tears, Sherlock leans over John with new resolve. John must not relive this. Not now, not ever. He will not permit it! Never again. Sherlock cups John’s face and stares into his eyes, their faces inches apart.

“Wake up. Listen to me please! Wake up, John. Wake UP!” he shouts and presses his lips to John’s without a thought to the consequences. He can think of nothing but pulling John from the horror of his dreams. At first, John’s mouth is lifeless, but then it begins to move under Sherlock’s and soon John is kissing him back. The kiss is slow and comforting. Sherlock moves his lips against John’s, trying to give his very soul to the precious man in his bed. And when their lips part and he looks down at John, he looks back with eyes in focus, focused on Sherlock. His eyes are full of questions and then panic, and his detective knows why.

“Why won’t my arms move?” he twitches frantically. “Why can’t I move?!”

“There is a very reasonable explanation.”

“The fuck, Sherlock!? Why the hell can’t I move?!!”

“It’s my fault!” Sherlock announces in a loud voice. John goes quiet and looks at him incredulously. “It’s my fault. I…it’s a muscle relaxant.”

“A muscle relaxant?”

“A paralytic.”

“Why.” John glares as Sherlock looks at him hesitantly, considering his next words carefully. “Don’t you even think about it, Sherlock Holmes. You will tell me the truth and you will tell me now.”

Sherlock wants to look away, but he can’t tear his eyes from John as they blaze with anger. This could not have gone more spectacularly wrong if Anderson was in the room, but Sherlock can’t blame Anderson this time. He is the only one to blame and John deserves the truth. His shoulders sag and he sits back on his knees, resting his hands on his own thighs.

“You had a nightmare,” he sighs sadly, knowing what his next words will do to John. “You were going to break my neck. I… I couldn’t wake you up.”

John’s eyes are wide and full of despair. He is completely gutted, on the verge of tears. He should say something. He wants to say something, but the words won’t come. His throat is bone dry and nearly gags.  _ Sorry. I’m so sorry. Don’t leave me. _

“Jesus Christ,” is what finally comes out of his mouth. His words, and his face, are full of dread and sorrow.

“ I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry I told you that,” Sherlock shakes his head rapidly, his curls swishing. “I should have lied. I’m sorry I did it at all.”

“No. You should have done,” John struggles to pull himself together and calm down. “I’d have killed you. … The drugs...Mycroft?”

Sherlock nods and scrubs his hands through his dark hair. His body is restless, overcome by guilt and foolishness. He should have found a better way, if he’s so damn clever. He should have found a way to spare John this torture and humiliation. He has only made it worse.

“You aren’t safe with me right now.”

“I don’t care. Do you hear me, John? I will never leave your side again.” He climbs under the covers, turns John on his side, and snuggles against him. After a minute or two, he lifts his flatmate’s arm carefully and drapes it over his own waist. He pulls John close again and looks into his eyes with regret.

“It wasn’t a bad idea,” John would have shrugged, feeling the need to comfort his flatmate. “It won’t be as hard next time. I’ll know and you won’t have to explain again.”

“It was a terrible idea and I’ll never do it again.”

“Sherlock, no. You’re still alive because of it. Don’t ever feel guilty about that.”

“It made your nightmare worse. It left you defenseless in your own mind so Moriarty could…” he clamps his mouth shut.

“What, Sherlock? So he could do what?”

Sherlock closes his eyes for a beat. He can’t. He can’t hear it now. They can’t say it now on the heels of this. He opens his eyes and shakes his head, his mouth in a tight line.

“No. No, you don’t. Goddammit, Sherlock, what did I say?” John demands. “What happened in the dream?”

“Doesn’t matter. Let’s just get some rest. We could both use it,” the detective whispers, feeling like a coward. John takes a breath to speak, but Sherlock cuts him off with a plea. “Please, John, please. We can talk about it in the morning.”

John can see plainly that Sherlock does not want to talk - about. anything. - and, against his better judgement, he just nods in response. The detective closes his eyes. A clap of thunder shakes the flat, punctuated by a flash of lightning. Sherlock’s face is stony, his mouth a tight line. John stares at him in the dim lamp light, searching for something to say. Something to ease that expression, but the words don’t come and he eventually closes his own eyes against the storm.

***

The storm is still raging outside 221B when John starts awake two hours later. The bedroom is dark, only lit when the lightning flashes. The detective must have woke up and turned off the lamp on the bedside table at some point. John turns toward him at just the moment a flash of lightning reveals his face, now peaceful in sleep. John sits up and looks at his own arms and legs, flexing his fingers and wiggling his toes. He almost wonders if it was all a dream and then sees the empty syringe on the headboard table. He glances at the clock and then strokes his fingers through the detective’s hair.

“Doing it must’ve torn you apart.”

He kisses Sherlock’s head, gets up, and leaves the bedroom. After a stop in the loo, John walks to the kitchen and sets about making a sandwich and cuppa. As he works, he considers their options. Sherlock will clearly never agree to drug him again, in spite of John’s ability to overpower him when fueled by adrenaline and rage. John has no doubt that Sherlock has studied some martial art at some point in his life, but would never use it to its full extent while fighting John off. John grimaces as he plops a few pieces of turkey on a slide of bread. Short of convincing Sherlock to tie him to the bed, which he knows will not happen, and which is too close to home for John anyway, there is only one obvious option left. John doesn’t like it, but doesn’t have time to think of something else. Every night he spends with Sherlock puts the detective in danger.

Picking up his mug and plate, he walks into the sitting room, sits on the sofa, and switches on the telly. John falls asleep fairly soundly after the snack and roughly half of Love Actually, a film he decides he must finish later when he gets the chance.

***

Sherlock wakes in the morning to an empty bed and a note from John saying he has gone to the surgery to tidy his office and catch up on paperwork. The detective reads between the lines. John does not want to be with him after last night. He showers and dresses and leaves the flat. Catching a cab, he travels to a rather imposing home in one of the finer parts of London. The iron gates are opened for him without delay and his cab drives up to the house quickly. When he turns after paying, the front door is already open for him. He enters, greets the staff pleasantly, and ascends a great staircase to the next level. Walking down a long and lavish hall, he all but ignores the portraits on either side depicting figures that bear him a strong resemblance, and stops in front of a tall oak door. Affecting an indifferent expression, he turns the knob and enters.

“I see you orchestrated an early release,” he greets his brother, who sits in a large and rather ornately carved mahogany bed.

“You know I detest hospitals.”

“And the food,” the detective jabs, earning him an impatient sigh.

“Don’t be tiresome, Sherlock. What is it you want?”

Sherlock walks to the bed and places a small bag on the bedside table. It is the same bag Molly gave him the day before. He can see from Mycroft’s face that he knows exactly what it is, but his brother still gives him that patented false smile and speaks in a pleasant, but condescending tone.

“A gift? I’m touched.”

“A return. I won’t use it.”

“Sherlock,” Mycroft sits up straighter and squares his shoulders, fixing him with a mighty frown. “I know how you feel about John, but he is dangerous at present. You must protect yourself.”

“No,” Sherlock glares. “I used it last night. I stupidly followed your brilliant plan and it only increased John’s suffering.”

“Sherlock, I am not concerned with John’s mental anguish. His experiences do not put him in physical danger. Your safety, however, continues to be compromised. You  **must** use it again.”

“I will not. He couldn’t move and I couldn’t wake him. It followed him into his dream,” he pauses, mastering his emotions and continuing, glaring ice into his elder. “I saw what he was forced to endure. What he…” his voice breaks and he curses his own weakness, pissed as hell that he let Mycroft see it. He expects a sneer or an amused smirk when he looks at Mycroft, but finds a soft expression instead.

“That must have been difficult,” his brother says quietly, sincerely. “To see the one you love in so much pain. Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock’s eyes widen and the hot feeling of anger races up his spine. What the hell is Mycroft playing at? Does he mean to mock him?  _ This is where sentiment has taken you, brother mine. Oh, how the mighty have fallen. _  Sherlock snarls, lashing out at the man.

“Damn it, Mycroft! I tried it your way and failed miserably!” his body is restless with frustration and anger. The loose hold he has on his temper snaps. “I’m tired of you masquerading that you care! What the hell’s happened to you?!” Mycroft holds his icy glare, but says nothing. “Fuck you, dear brother.”

Sherlock storms to the door, but stops suddenly when he hears Mycroft’s calm words behind him.

“I will do whatever is necessary to keep any harm from coming to you, Sherlock.”

“At John’s expense. Do you expect me to thank you?”

“I intend to protect you **both** .”

Sherlock huffs a mocking laugh and, without a word, walks out the door and lets it slam loudly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, hello. I'm in a bit of a mood tonight and feel like asking Deadpool 2 style questions again. My apologies for not giving you any notes of substance. Instead, I'll say...
> 
> Da da daaaaaa!  
> What is this "one option" John doesn't like, but feels compelled do?  
> WTF does Mycroft mean by "I will do whatever is necessary to keep harm from coming to [both of] you"?  
> AND does he really mean BOTH of them?  
> If Sherlock isn't going to take Mycroft's advice, how is he going to protect himself from John?
> 
> And don't forget all the other lingering questions.  
> Will John be okay?  
> Will he test positive?  
> Will Sherlock ever propose?  
> Will there ever be a right moment?  
> Just what the fuck is Moriarty doing in Madrid? Vacationing?
> 
> All of these questions and more will be answered when you do as your favorite characters do.  
> P E R S I S T
> 
> LOL. Oh, god, I AM in a mood. Must be the cold medicine. Sorry for the obnoxious, soap opera behavior, my friends.  
> Happy reading. I promise I'll be back to my old self next time.  
> Thanks so much for all the love and support. I couldn't keep posting without you.  
> Love, Jane


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, friends, no summary. I don't want to give anything away, but...
> 
> **There is brief mention of non-consensual sex and a somewhat graphic recounting of rape.**  
>  If this is a trigger, these two paragraphs can be skipped. The first paragraph begins "You son of a bitch" and the other with "It started as soon as". To help give the signal to skip, I have underlined the first few words in these two paragraphs.
> 
> I apologize to anyone who feels the underlining disrupts the reading experience, but I want to be cognizant of any readers who might be disturbed by this subject.
> 
> Thanks, and sorry for the spoilers.

A few days later, Greg rings and asks for the duo’s help on a case. They oblige. John is healing well on all counts and no longer has to limp his way around. Unfortunately, his nightmares have worsened and he sneaks out to the sofa where he can’t hurt Sherlock every night, which is made easy by Sherlock’s tendency to fall asleep quickly, exhausted from his near constant worry for John. He knows his detective is greatly displeased with the arrangement, but has said nothing thus far. No harm has come to Sherlock since the night of the muscle relaxants, which should ease John’s mind, but he has only become more tense as the days have passed.

At the scene of the crime, the duo enter a flat under the guidance of Sally Donovan. Greg motions them over to where he stands by the body of a woman.

“Her flatmate just got home from holiday and found her. Says she last heard from her two days ago, which corresponds with her mobile.”

“She was shot in the throat,” Sherlock mumbles, squatting to study the body. “Mm, a precision shot.” 

John’s mobile sounds, interrupting Sherlock’s deductions, though he doesn’t seem to notice. John silences it quickly, looking to Greg and Sally. He bows ever so slightly as he makes his apologies.

“Sorry, sorry. I have to take this,” John sees Greg nodding as he turns his back and takes a few steps away. He would normally ignore his mobile on a case, but John expects a call from Sarah Sawyer about resuming his duties at the surgery. He speaks in a low voice when he answers. “John Watson.”

“Hello, love. I miss you.”

John closes his eyes and lets out a deep breath. It’s all he can do to keep his knees from buckling and he’s furious with himself for the visceral reaction to that voice. Sherlock stops breaking down the murder and looks at him quizzically. Looking up from his notes, Greg glances toward John as well. Feeling their eyes on him, John turns and holds the mobile to his chest. He smiles.

“Be just a tick. Sorry.” He makes eye contact with Sherlock as he starts to turn away, concern lining the man’s face. “It’s fine,” he mutters as he leaves the room and separates himself from the other officers about the flat. The mobile still pressed against his chest, he inhales deeply and steels himself to speak with his attacker. “Where the hell are you?!”

“You DO miss me!” Jim’s voice is loud and cheerful over the phone. “ I’m touched, but I’m afraid we can’t be together just yet, love.”

“No, I just want to find you so I can break your fucking neck,” John says quietly, gritting his teeth.

“Mm, I’m looking forward to seeing you too.” Jim is standing on a brightly colored linoleum floor lined with tile walls. He wears a wide grin and starts walking to the edge of a swimming pool as he speaks to the object of his desire. “But I have some business to attend to first.” He casts his black eyes down at Irene Adler, who is under the water, bound hand and foot and weighted to the bottom. “Not to worry though. I’ll come for you when the time is right.”

“No.”

“Have you gotten the test results back yet?”

John blinks, his eyes wide, taken completely off guard.

“How could you possibly…”

“Oh, John, do you even need to ask?” Jim declares with a laugh. “You needn’t have bothered. I’m very careful.”

“You weren’t with me.”

“I knew I didn’t have to be. My research into the sex life of one, Dr. John Watson was very thorough.” The timer in his hand suddenly goes off. Jim clicks its alarm button and nods to a tall, blonde man standing a few feet away. “Oops. That’s me. I’ll ring you again soon, love. See you in your dreams.”

Jim ends the call. John stands motionless for a moment and then lowers his mobile.

“Goddammit!” His voice is angry and loud, but the officers scurrying around behind him don’t take any notice. Someone does though. Shoving the mobile in his pocket, John turns to see Sherlock and Greg wearing twin expressions of concern.

“Bad news?” Greg offers.

“No. No, not that news. It was…nothing. It’s fine.” Sherlock, looking very unconvinced, opens his mouth to speak, but John jumps on ahead with a nod. “What did you find?”

Sherlock’s skeptical eyes do not change, but his face shifts to deduction mode. He strides back into the room with the body, Greg and John following, and begins explaining his findings animatedly. 

“She’s been dead roughly 24 hours. Shot twice in the throat, both the carotid and in rapid succession, lest she fall and the killer miss the mark. The shots came from the unit of flats across the way. Through the window. There are two small bullet holes right here,” he leaps onto a chair and reaches for the top of the pane.

“Across the…bloody hell. I’d have trouble making that shot,” John exclaims, putting his hands on his hips and looking up at Sherlock.

“Only an expert could do it. And, no, you wouldn’t, John.”

“Well, I can safely say John is not a suspect,” Greg interjects with a bit of a smile. John almost gives him an uneasy look, the DI still unaware that John is the mysterious killer of the cabbie on their first case. Sherlock jumps off the chair and faces Greg.

“This is the work of an assassin.”

“What?” the DI’s eyes go wide, gaping at the detective. “Steady on! An assassin?”

“Yes. It’s obvious. I said as much when I told you this before.”

“You said expert. I thought serial killer, not a bloody assassin.”

“Serial killers are rarely experts, Lestrade.”

“Bloody hell!” he nearly shouts. He turns away, dialing his mobile and shaking his head. “I need completely different people for this. Goddammit, I’ll have to call special ops.” He looks back at them and waves them off. “You’re done for now. Thanks. I’ll be in touch.”

John and Sherlock head out of the building and start walking down the pavement. Sherlock stops and looks up at the window the assassin shot from in the neighboring building. John follows his eyes for a moment and then studies the man himself. He can see the wheels turning, practically hear the man’s thoughts as he deduces.

“You want to go up there? I’m sure Greg doesn’t have a warrant yet, but that’s never stopped you,” John suggests, but the detective shakes his head. “Off to the lab then? Look at what they’ve recovered?”

“No. There won’t be anything from the shooter’s station yet, not that evidence will have been left behind. This is the work of someone who kills often and never leaves a trace. And there won’t be any real evidence at the crime scene because the killer never set foot in the flat.” Sherlock takes his eyes from the building and fixes his silver gaze on the doctor, his voice changing completely to one of concern. “John, what is it? What was that call?”

John pauses for a beat, sticking his tongue in his cheek. He does not want to think about that conversation. Doesn’t want to think about when Jim will come after him again. And he doesn’t want to worry Sherlock more than he has already, even though he knows he’ll have to at some point. John simply shakes his head and avoids Sherlock’s all-seeing eyes, which damn well tells him enough as it is.

“It was nothing. Nothing important,” he finally looks at his flatmate and knows he isn’t fooled. Not even a little bit. “Let’s go to Hyde Park. We can talk about the case. You can catch me up.”

Sherlock’s expression does not betray a single thought as he raises his hand for a cab.

***

After a pleasant and very talkative walk in the park, the couple spends the rest of the day virtually silent at their own pastimes. Sherlock conducts a variety of experiments, though none involve human body parts or foul stenches. John reads and putters around with tea, and then makes dinner. They laugh and joke while they eat, and Sherlock even offers to help with the dishes after, much to John’s surprise. He stands before the sink to do the washing with his detective drying.

After a very interesting exchange about bees and weather patterns, John hands Sherlock the last dish and pulls the drain. As he watches the water and suds curl down into the bottom of the basin, he feels hands slide around his waist until he is enveloped in the detective’s long arms. John places his own wet hands over Sherlock’s and closes his eyes. Sherlock bends his neck and rests his chin on John’s shoulder. There they stand for an indeterminate amount of time. Just feeling one another’s warmth and breathing slowly together. They begin to sway slightly as though some sweet music fills the air. Neither man says a word. They don’t need to. Each is focused on the other and takes solace in his presence.

Eventually, Sherlock slants his head and presses his lips to John’s ear to whisper the suggestion that they watch telly, perhaps Bond. John smiles and says Love Actually will do. They settle together under a blanket on the sofa with popcorn and wine, an odd combination of refreshment but Sherlock’s favorite.

Much later, after they have gone to their room and fallen asleep in each other’s arms, John’s quiet mobile alarm goes off. He wakes quickly and goes to the sofa again. His shoulder aches, so he wraps it to dull the pain. He has a quick snack and dozes off in front of the Hobbit. Brilliantly acted, but a little slow for John’s sleep-addled brain.

A tickle on John’s lips has him moving his head to shoo it away. Another tickle, this time warm and wet. His eyes open slowly and a grin spreads across his face.

“Oh, hello.”

He doesn’t get out another word before Sherlock’s mouth seizes his, that skillful tongue teasing his own. The detective’s voice rumbles low in between kisses.

“John…I’ve never wanted…anyone the way…I want you.” His hands slide under John’s pajama shirt and up to his chest. “God, I love you.”

“I love you, Sherlock.” John pulls at the tall man’s pajama bottoms as he closes his eyes and kisses him hard. When he pauses to gasp in a breath, an entirely different voice greets him.

“You have the wrong name, love.”

John’s eyes snap open and focus on the smiling face of Jim Moriarty. He pushes him off and scrambles back quickly, stopping only when his back hits the couch cushions.

“What the fuck?!”

“Why so surprised? I did say I was going to come when the time was right…again and again.” Jim rushes forward and pins John, thrusting their hips together to emphasize the double meaning of his words. Their faces just inches apart, Jim whispers threateningly. “I will make you come this time, John. We’ll come together. There’s no stopping me now.” John twists, but cannot get any leverage to escape. Jim licks his cheek and repeats the threat with a leer. “No. Stopping. Me.”

His breath is warm on John’s face as he nips at John’s lips and throat. John turns his head away and Jim’s lips find his ear. He whispers while he kisses and bites and licks.

“No Sherlock. No Sherlock to save you this time.”

The name sends a jolt through John’s body, his mind suddenly overwhelmed with worry for his flatmate. What has he done to Sherlock? He would’ve come into the room by now.

“Sherlock!”

“You want to see him?” Jim smiles that horrifying grin and backs away, letting go of John completely. “Go ahead. He’s in the bedroom.”

If John wasn’t so concerned for Sherlock’s safety, he would wring the life from Jim’s body in an instant, but he’s sick with worry for what this monster has done to his flatmate. John leaps to his feet, his face a mixture of disquiet and hate. He races into the bedroom with Jim lagging behind and finds Sherlock lying awkwardly on the bed. John jumps up next to him, his eyes scanning rapidly for wounds.

“What have you done?” he shouts, pressing two fingers to that pale throat and breathing a sigh of relief when he finds a steady pulse. “Sherlock! Sherlock, can you hear me?”

“He’s fine. Don’t worry,” Jim approaches the bed. “But he can’t hear you. I didn’t want any interruptions.”

“You son of a bitch!” John springs at the man, but Jim gets the better of him somehow and pins him on his back next to Sherlock. Suddenly their clothes are gone and Jim thrusts violently into John. There is terror in John’s eyes as he meets Jim’s dark, soulless stare and rips into John again.

“Let’s make it good, love. After all, Sherlock’s watching.”

“NO!!! Get off! GET OFF!”

John sits straight up on the sofa screaming. His pajamas are soaked with sweat, his hair and skin like he just stepped out of the shower. He looks around the room, wiping tears from his eyes. His body begins to shake. He hugs his arms around his torso as he tries to calm down and regulate his breaths. They are quick and shallow. He is in the grip of a full-on panic attack. He pulls his knees up to his chin and hunches forward. The shivering grows more intense. John clenches his eyes shut, trying to think, to do everything he knows he’s supposed to so he will calm down, but the sound of frantic footsteps racing into the room breaks what little concentration he can muster. John snaps his head up to see a panicked Sherlock Holmes standing in the doorway.

“John! My god, look at you! For god sake.” Sherlock walks to him quickly, but cautiously, sizing him up to make sure he isn’t still asleep. He immediately drops down on the sofa, seeking permission with his eyes before touching his flatmate. John gives him a trembling nod and Sherlock wraps his arms around him, holding him close to his warm body. After a few minutes with no change, he pulls back and swiftly rubs his hands up and down John’s arms. Once the shivering subsides and John has calmed a bit, Sherlock squares up and meets his eyes.

“John, tell me what’s going on. There is much more to this than you have said.”

“Sherlock, I…it…it was nothing. Just a dream.”

“John!” frustration colors his face. “Don’t tell me it was just a dream!”

Sherlock rants on, but John doesn’t really hear him. His eyes gloss over a bit as he remembers the phone call with Jim. His voice and his laugh echo in John’s ears, haunting him. And then the dream. Will he never have any peace? He shivers and closes his eyes quickly.

“He said he would see me in my dreams,” John’s voice trembles. He sounds far away, even to his own ears. “He knows what he’s done to me.” 

“What?”

“Moriarty.”

Sherlock bristles. His blood boils at that single word. So much that he can barely contain his fury. John stares straight ahead at the detective’s pajama-clad chest blankly. He can feel Sherlock fuming before him and struggles to remind himself that he is not so furious with him. John rises from the sofa as if in a trance and steps away toward the door, putting some distance between them. Sherlock’s eyes follow him all the way.

“He rang me. At the crime scene. It was him on the phone.”

“I know.”

“I figured,” John turns his head ever so slightly in Sherlock’s direction. “Seemed like something you could easily deduce. Or something I could never really hide from you anyway.”

“John,” Sherlock stands and takes two slow steps toward him, “why didn’t you just tell me? Why lie about something I can see so easily?”

“Because I’m a liar,” John shrugs, his expression hopeless. “I demand the truth from you and give back lies. I’m despicable.”

Sherlock takes two more steps and straightens his spine. His insides may shatter at those words, but he’ll be damned if he shows it right now. Not when John needs him. He speaks in a firm tone.

“John, that’s not true and you know it. Don’t let Moriarty poison you.”

“Ha. Too late for that,” John replies with a quiet release of breath that’s almost a laugh. Sherlock clenches his jaw and bites back his anger. He will kill Moriarty for what he has done. Slowly and painfully. “I don’t want to worry you.”

“Worry me? I couldn’t  **be** more worried. And now you say he’s poisoned you?” he huffs in frustration. Suddenly a spike of anger shudders through his body from head to toe and gets the better of him as it has so many times before, but it never mattered as much as it does now. Sherlock barrels ahead, shouting without regard for tact. “What did he do to you?! How could he poison you if you’re still alive, right here with me?!”

Sherlock stops, cutting off his own voice, realizing what he is doing, what he is saying. His furious eyes, now filling with shame, fall to the floor. He cannot bear to look at John. Cannot bear to see what his own words have done to John. Words fueled by this new inability to regulate his own emotions. What has happened to him? Mycroft’s words echo in Sherlock’s mind.  _ Sentiment is a defect found on the losing side. _

“What?? What do you want to know, Sherlock?” John’s loud but trembling voice tears the detective from his own thoughts and he meets his watery, deep blue eyes. “You’ve started to ask what he did to me so many times and you always stop yourself. What are you afraid of? What do you think I’ll say?!”

Sherlock’s jaw is clenched, his eyes blazing. He doesn’t trust himself to answer, not at all sure of what he will say.

“YES!” John is shouting now. “Yes, all right!! He did! He did…again and again.” John is gutted. Breathing hard, on the verge of panic or tears. He can’t tell which. He wants to stop. Stop all of this, but he can’t. He has to finish this. When he continues, his voice is a more normal volume, but has lost none of its intensity. His eyes haven’t left Sherlock’s face, even for a second and he bites out his next words. “Are you happy now? You knew. You always knew. But you had to hear  **me** say it. You had to hear the words from  **me** .”

Tears run down John’s cheeks as he watches Sherlock. He wants to look away, so filled with shame, but can’t. He blinks and tears fall. John’s shoulders sag in defeat. He looks broken. He is broken.

“It started as soon as he took me from the lab,” John finally clamps his eyes shut. Tears squeeze out and trickle down his cheeks. “He tried to be…not to hurt me, but it didn’t work. It was like fire, and I was burning. I was burning and, god, it hurt so much. Then the last night, the night before you found me.” John opens his eyes suddenly. They are filled with pain and terror. He crosses his arms over his chest and grasps his own biceps, fingers digging into the skin. He wants to fold in on himself and disappear. His voice on the verge of breaking, John continues. “I was pissed off and I made him angry. I wanted to make him angry so he would make a mistake, but he didn’t. He just...he just…”

“Stop! John, stop!”

John shifts his eyes from the place on the wall he has been fixating on to see his detective still standing before him, but with tears streaming over sharp cheekbones and down his pale skin. For a long moment, they just stand there staring. Neither can look away or speak, and both are breathing heavily. Finally, John looks away and wipes at his own face.

“I know this is… I’ll move into the other bedroom.”

Sherlock looks incredulous, his silver orbs wide with disbelief.

“I’ll move out if you want.”

“Why would I want that?” Sherlock’s voice is just above a whisper.

“Because I’m…he…I had sex wi…”

“No. You most certainly did not,” Sherlock says very firmly, taking a step closer. He stands directly in front of John now, his hands trembling. He doesn’t know what to do with them and finally lets them fall to his sides. “What happened between you and that bastard can only be characterized one way and THAT is NOT it.”

John sighs and looks away, more tears slipping from his eyes. Sherlock steps up close so they are chest to chest and puts his hands around his jaw gently, wiping his cheeks and urging John to meet his eyes.

“I love you, John. I have never loved anyone this way and I never will again. You are my life. I had not felt like a whole person until you walked into Molly’s laboratory. I hate Moriarty and everything he has done to you. For the nightmare he makes you live. But that hate will never, NEVER extend to you. You are my soul, John. My happiness and my sorrow. My conductor of light,” he pauses for a split second, but doesn’t miss a beat. “Marry me.”

“Oh my god.” All the air has left John’s lungs and he can scarcely believe that he said anything at all. He swallows hard and wets his lips, staring intensely into his flatmate’s soft, sincere eyes. “Sherlock, I love you. It’s like I’ve never loved anyone before now that I have you.”

Throwing their arms around one another, they dive in for a kiss and bump noses instead. Both giggling, they try again, each determined not to lose the power of this moment. When their lips touch, it is like nothing more perfect has ever happened in all the world. Buttercup and Wesley all over again. Everything around them disappears. They are lost in time and space. Sherlock’s soft, full lips press against John’s deliciously. He slides his tongue along John’s lower lip and John can’t help but sigh.

They both have smiles on their faces when their lips part. Sherlock looks down at John with so much love in his expression, but it isn’t enough. He wants to make sure John knows that he loves him so fully and so completely that nothing, NOTHING Moriarty has done, or could ever do, will change his feelings or his intentions. He wants to be John’s husband, to love and protect always. And he wants to assure John that he is safe, that Moriarty will never touch him again.

“I hardly know what to say,” John nearly chokes out, still not quite believing he heard correctly. Sherlock gathers himself quickly and smiles down at the smaller man. He squeezes him in his arms lovingly.

“You could say yes.”

In one moment, one painful moment, John’s smile fades. His deep blue eyes search Sherlock’s face. The detective can feel John’s desperation and sorrow. His heart begins to sink into his shoes.

“Oh god, Sherlock. I can’t, I just…I can’t,” John lowers his eyes. “I have so many things to work through. It wouldn’t be fair.”

He wants to say more, try to explain, but his voice fails him as soon as he looks back at Sherlock. John, who knows him so well, sees in an instant that Sherlock is crushed. Utterly. By no means is his mouth hanging open like it would be on Greg or Molly, but it is open just enough. His eyes would appear normal to anyone else, but John knows he is fighting back tears.

“God, Sherlock, no. I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” he whispers. His arms drop to his sides again and he starts to turn away, but John grabs his biceps with both hands and forces him to stay right where he is.

“No, Sherlock, don’t turn away from me. Please.” Sherlock meets his pleading eyes. “I want to! I want to marry you. I want you as my husband. I want it more than anything.”

The panic fades from his voice as Sherlock’s expression lightens a bit, as understanding dawns in that big brain. John pauses and slides his fingers down Sherlock’s arms to hold his hands. When he speaks again, his voice is very grave.

“I’m being tested for STIs. I don’t have the results. I can’t ask you to commit to me before I know that,” he wets his lips pensively. “And not when I can’t even sleep next to you without knowing I won’t hurt you.”

Sherlock touches a finger to John’s lips to stop him from going on.

“I know. You were right, I’ve always known. I stopped myself from asking you because I couldn’t...bear to hear you say it. And I shouldn’t have made you say it now,” the detective sighs. “I was angry, angry with him. And I couldn’t control it.” He pauses. “I hate him, John.”

John nods and lets out a long, shuddering sigh, trying to hold it together. Sherlock brushes a hand through John’s soft hair.

“When will you get the results?”

“One or two weeks.” They stand in silence. Sherlock’s hand comes to rest on John’s warm cheek as they look into each other’s eyes. It’s as if all of their thoughts and fears and hopes pass from one to the other without a word. “Sherlock,” John’s voice breaks, “stay with me. I don’t want to be alone.”

With the hand he is still holding firmly, Sherlock guides John to the sofa. He sits and pulls John close. John sits with him and they lie down together. John snuggles up under Sherlock’s chin and folds his arms around his detective. Sherlock’s arms are warm around John and make him feel safe again. John can’t believe how the smallest things from this man make him feel so at ease, even with all that troubles him. And yet…

Sherlock tilts his head down to look at John as his body begins to shudder. He pulls John tighter, wanting their bodies to meld together into one being, to give his strength and love to John so he will feel it completely with no doubts or barriers. As John sobs, Sherlock kisses his head gently again and again, all the while vowing to murder Moriarty the first chance he gets.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG! I love this chapter, but it was so hard to write and edit. There's so much emotion - sorrow, panic, fear - and I feel all of it right along with my characters. And then when Sherlock proposes, there's this huge release!
> 
> And then John says no. AH! Gut-wrenching! And why? Why?!? I hope you can all understand John's reasoning and don't hate him...or me.
> 
> On a housekeeping note, you'll note that the number of chapters has changed. There's just too much in the next chapter and I had to split it in two. That said, only two chapters left. AH! Thank you all for riding out Part 3 with me. I have treasured all the love and support, comments and kudos, and couldn't do this without them. You all are my life blood. (So are Sherlock and John, of course.)
> 
> I really hope you all loved this chapter! I'll try to get the others out as soon as I can, but I'm heading into a busy weekend.  
> So much love to you all. Jane


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, friends, I'm doing it to you again. No spoilers.

Ten days later, John finds himself home alone. It came as no surprise to him when he received a text from Sherlock at the surgery saying he and “Graham” were following a lead. When he arrived to an empty 221B, he merely made some tea and settled in with a new book that came highly recommended by the consulting detective. 

As he reads and his mind immediately begins to correlate the lead male character, a man who goes off to find his fortune only to be murdered by pirates, with Sherlock, John finds himself staring at the pages and thinking more about his flatmate than he is reading. He and Sherlock have grown much closer since he let the detective back into his life by revealing his painful struggles. The confession has set John free in many ways. He feels more at ease both day and night. He has also started seeing his therapist again. He isn’t exactly sure how much good it’s doing because while he has told Ella that he was kidnapped and “tortured,” he cannot bring himself to reveal the nature of said torture. He hasn’t been able to tell anyone aside from Sherlock. However, it does seem as though the nightmares have stopped, but John continues taking steps to ensure he will not harm his flatmate, and that is a subject he and Ella have discussed extensively.

After about an hour into the book, the Dread Pirate Roberts is engaged in a battle of wits with a smarmy little bastard called Vizzini, who fancies himself a genius. Just as he swaps goblets behind the pirate’s back, John hears the door to the flat open with a little knock on its surface as it goes.

“Hello? John?” Mrs. Hudson’s voice calls down the hall. “I did hear you come up, didn’t I?”

“Yes, Mrs.Hudson. I’ll be right there.”

“Oh no, dear. Don’t trouble yourself. I’m almost there already.” 

John rises and walks into the hall where they meet halfway. Mrs. Hudson smiles at him and holds out a large, brown envelope.

“This came for you. Special post.” He takes it from her and eyes it anxiously, knowing exactly what it is. “It looks very official, dear. Have you been expecting it?”

“Yes,” he replies, tearing his eyes from it and looking at her. “Yes, I have.”

She looks as if she is going to say more, but the faint ring of her mobile drifts up from her flat. Her eyes pop open wide in surprise and she turns to rush back down the hall.

“ Oh, I’m sorry to run, but I’ve been waiting for this call. Mrs. Turner has some sort of dilemma. Left a very cryptic message, if I do say. Good luck with your letter, dear!”

Mrs. Hudson closes the door as she goes and John can hear her footfalls hurrying down the stairs. He turns and walks into the dining area, his gaze boring into the envelope as if he hopes to read the letter inside without even opening its cover. This letter holds all the answers, the key to his life with Sherlock. He is both desperate and terrified to open it.

After staring at it for full minute, John swallows and wets his lips, then he tears open the envelope and removes the papers within. He hears the flat door open again and Sherlock’s voice in mid-conversation.

“Of course it was murder. Just look at his teeth,” the detective is saying to Greg before he calls out. “John?”

“In here.” A smile spreads across John’s face and he talks quietly to himself. “Son of a bitch didn’t lie.”

“…certainly not,” Sherlock strides into the room, casting a backwards glance at Greg, who walks closely behind. “The assassin will kill again. It is simply a question of who and how soon.”

John faces them with a grin the likes of which Sherlock hasn’t seen in weeks, holding up the papers and gesturing.

“My results,” he pronounces. “I’m clean.”

“That is great news! Just great. Aw, god,” Greg immediately wraps him in a bear hug. “Fantastic news, John. Congratulations.”

He claps a hand on both John and Sherlock’s shoulders and looks from one to the other. John and Sherlock exchange a meaningful look. A smile slowly creeps across Sherlock’s full lips.

“Yes, it is.”

“Hey! Let’s celebrate!” 

“A winning idea, Lestrade.”

“Great!” he releases them both and disappears quickly around the corner into the hall. “I’ll get us a cab. Won’t be a moment.”

Still beaming at one another, John takes a small step forward and puffs out a breath. He looks like a schoolboy who received excellent marks and is both excited and embarrassed to show his friends. It is absolutely endearing.

“Sher…mmph!”

Sherlock leaps at him and launches his tongue into John’s mouth. He can feel joy and lust radiating from the detective’s body like electricity. His tongue, doing what John can only describe as slow dancing, slides along his own very deliberately and enthusiastically. A barely audible sigh escapes from John’s lips. One of Sherlock’s hands moves from where it clutches John’s shoulder to the back of his head. Sherlock slowly tilts their heads to the side, slotting their mouths together perfectly and deepening the kiss. John’s knees weaken a little.

Feeling John’s body slacken, Sherlock slides his other hand down John’s back. Supporting the smaller man’s weight, he begins stepping toward him, pushing him along as he goes until John tumbles backwards into a chair. Sherlock keeps their bodies flush, his legs straddling John’s lap. With his hands slipping to Sherlock’s hips, John mumbles between kisses.

“Sherlock, what are you doing?”

Sherlock’s mouth locks over John’s again. His tongue, once again, caressing John’s with delicious skill. A low growl rumbles in Sherlock’s throat and John responds in kind, his entire body tingling.

“We have to stop,” he whispers breathlessly. “Greg is…waiting.”

Sherlock does not utter a word, glancing at John with dark eyes before burying his face in John’s neck and covering it with hot kisses, and near frantic nibbles.

“Fuck Greg,” he replies dismissively, licking his doctor’s neck slowly. John moans and curses in a low voice. Sherlock pauses after a few more licks to look at John, his brow furrowed. “Who’s Greg?”

“Christ, Sherlock!” John scolds, but he’s soon whispering in a needy tone when Sherlock’s lips are on his throat again. “Oh god, yes!”

John’s hands slide over Sherlock’s bum and he gasps as the man’s tongue flutters over his Adam’s apple. The detective seizes the opportunity to plunder John’s mouth again. Cradling John’s cheeks with his large hands, Sherlock spends the next few seconds kissing his doctor even more thoroughly.

“Oi!” Greg’s irritated call rises up the stairs to their ears. John nearly jumps out of his skin, believing Greg has re-entered the flat. He tries to squirm out of Sherlock’s grasp, but stops when Sherlock begins mumbling impatiently that Greg is at the bottom of the stairs. “Are you two coming or not? I’ve got the cab and I’m not holding it forever!” He continues with a smile in his voice. “Don’t make me come up there!”

Even though he is not the least bit concerned about the threat, Sherlock finally releases John’s lips, letting out a shaky breath as he does so. John sighs and looks at his detective with eyes blown wide, as he whispers in a voice that is thick with desire.

“You do that again and I will be.”

Sherlock lets out a low chuckle that makes John shiver. “We  **will** come back to this, John.”

“I’d be disappointed if we didn’t…” he grins, “come.”

“You definitely have no worries on that front.”

Both men snicker and Sherlock pulls John to his feet. They walk swiftly from the room, putting on their coats as they go, and set off down the stairs to meet Greg.

***

Later at the pub, the three men hold their shots aloft as Greg belts out a toast. The third such toast of the evening, all of which seem to be going straight to his head.

“To good news!”

“To fucking spectacular news!”

They knock them back while Sherlock raises a brow and wonders just how much has gone to John’s head. He and Greg have each consumed a beer in addition to the shots and while Sherlock does not believe either of them are light weights, he doesn’t think they have had this much to drink for quite some time. He certainly knows John hasn’t.

“Honestly, John, that mouth of yours,” he gives him a wry smile. John just winks at him with a high-pitched giggle. Greg motions to their server, a young blonde who insists upon calling him hon.

“We need another round, please,” he points to John and then Sherlock. “One, two… Hey. Aren’t you forgetting something?”

The detective now cocks his brow at the DI and downs the shot. “Satisfied?”

“Ta. Now we need three… Where did she go?” Greg straightens up in his seat to look for their server. She suddenly appears right next to him with another round. Greg smiles widely and hands her some bills. “Smashing. Cheers, love,” he nods to the others and they all pick up their drinks. “I just want to say how really happy I am about this, John. This is the news of the best, the very best.”

“I should hope so,” John blurts, laughing loudly.

“No, really. I’ve been worried very about you and I’m glad everything turned out.”

“As am I,” Sherlock adds sincerely.

“Thank you. Both of you,” John says, trying to sober a bit. “I’m sure the last few weeks have been hard for all of us.”

“Without a doubt,” Greg speaks solemnly. They spend a moment in reflection, glancing from one face to another. John’s eyes settle on Sherlock’s and soften. His flatmate reads his expression instantly, just as they have always done.

_ I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you before. _

John sees the response in the silver eyes that gleam back in a comforting gaze.

_ I know. It’s okay. _

“Well then, bottom’s up!” Greg exclaims, breaking the silence. They all exchange looks, smiling and clicking their glasses together for the toast. John lets out a quiet chuckle as they knock them back. When all the glasses are on the table again, John notices his mobile vibrating in his pocket and pulls it out to see who is calling. BLOCKED. Greg is already motioning for another round and John can feel Sherlock’s knee brushing against his own under the table. He looks to the detective, who smiles back with a knowing glint in his eye. John’s lips curl as he presses ignore and replaces the mobile in his pocket.

The three friends continue their celebration, talking and laughing. They toast with another shot and John feels his pocket vibrate again. He ignores it. A few minutes later, their server returns with another round and the three glasses of water Sherlock asked for.

“John Watson?” she asks the doctor as she puts the glasses on the table, one by one.

“Yes. Can I help?”

“There’s a call for you by the bar,” she smiles. He looks at Greg and Sherlock with a confused and tipsy smile.

“My best friends are right here. Who could be calling me?”

“Molly?” Greg suggests with a decidedly inebriated grin. “No, Mycroft!”

John laughs as he rises, pulling his vibrating mobile from his pocket and reading the incoming text. 

_ Take the call, love.  _

His face falls from jovial to stone in a split-second. Suddenly feeling very sober, John hides the phone quickly and desperately tries to school his expression, already knowing even before he looks at Sherlock that it’s too late.

“John?”

“Everyfing all right, mate?” Greg slurs.

“Fine. Fine. I should jus’ answer,” he rises and starts walking. “Won’t be a minute.”

John walks swiftly to the house phone and picks up the receiver. He pauses a moment before saying anything, his jaw muscles working beneath his skin. 

“What the fuck do you want?”

“Hello, John. It’s so good to hear your voice. So many nights apart, I know it’s difficult. It’s hard for me too.”

“I’m going to say this one time and one time only. Stay. The fuck. Out of my life.”

“Oh, that’s not going to happen,” Jim smirks. “Surely you know me well enough by now to know I never give up what’s mine. Our lives are one in the same, love. You don’t belong to Sherlock anymore. You belong to me.”

“I don’t BELONG to anyone,” John growls through clenched teeth, low and dangerous.

“So you say,” the other man laughs pleasantly. “You’re mine. I. Marked. You.”

“What d’you mean by that?” John asks furrowing his brow, his temper flaring.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“You fucking tell me now!”

“Temper, temper. Don’t worry, love. We’ll talk it out soon, you and I. I just have a few more things to take care of first. House-sitting for an old friend. You know how it is, but we’ll be together again soon and I can’t wait.”

“ **Fuck** you.”

“Soon enough, John. Soon enough. Enjoy your time with Sherlock. It won’t last.” Jim ends the call. With his jaw clenched, John replaces the receiver on its cradle carefully. He takes in a deep, angry breath and runs a hand through his hair.

“John?”

The doctor spins around, hand on his chest and breathing fast. He stands face to face with his detective, a very concerned expression on his pale features. 

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock! Don’t sneak up on me like that. I could’ve punched you in the face.”

“I’ve no doubt of it. I did not intend to startle you. I’m sorry,” he pauses, narrowing his eyes in deduction. “Forgive me, but you seem on edge. Why?”

“I’m not. Just, you startled me is all. Like you said. Let’s get back.” He takes a step forward, but Sherlock’s tall, slender frame stands firmly in his way.

“No, John. Something is wrong. Who was so eager to speak with you?”

“Nothing, Sherlock. It’s nothing,” John gives him an intense look at first and then tries to smile casually, sliding artfully around Sherlock’s body. He turns back and beckons to him with a more convincing smile, but even a partially drunk Sherlock is not fooled in the slightest. “Come on. Greg must be ready with another toast b’now.”

Sherlock purses his lips in displeasure, but resigns himself to follow, frowning mightily the whole way.

“ ‘Bout time you two made it back! Here,” Greg gestures largely at the shot glasses on the table. “Another toast! To As you get test in!”

***

When the flatmates arrive home very late in the evening or, more precisely, early the next morning, John drops his coat on the floor and stumbles to the loo. Once he’s finished, he immediately goes to the kitchen and fills a glass with water. By the time Sherlock walks in after his turn in the loo, John has consumed two glasses of water and is filling a third.

“What are you doing?” the detective slurs a bit as he slinks over to his doctor.

“I find the more water I consume after a night of heavy drinking, the better I feel in the morning.” Sherlock joins him at the counter and is quickly greeted by his own glass of water. He raises his gaze to John, who is looking at him very seriously in spite of his inebriation. “And you’d better do the same. Unless, of course, you want that gorgeous head of yours to feel like a train came through.”

The detective smirks. He may have done all the shots Greg and John did, but did not drink anything else, and he insisted they all drink water in tandem as the night progressed. As a rule, Sherlock doesn’t enjoy drinking all that much and felt someone needed to remain more responsible. Mostly he doesn’t like to lose control of his brain. Still smirking at John ,who now has a brow cocked, Sherlock drains the glass and replaces it on the counter. He wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. John’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, though he looks like he’d rather lick Sherlock’s.

“I meant what I said at the pub.”

“Of course you did,” John declares and then frowns. “What did you say again?”

“I have been very concerned for you. Waiting has been agony.”

John’s eyes sober quickly. Maybe he isn’t as drunk as Sherlock believes. He puts down his glass on the counter and places a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. His face is a picture of sincerity.

“I’m sorry you had to go through that. I wanted so badly to be honest with you, but… I was trying to spare you the worry. Our folly, eh?”

“I understand that feeling, John, believe me. But you needn’t have. I want everything we experience to be together. Good or bad, so we can help each other through” he sighs and tilts his head a fraction. “You are my ending and beginning. Our hearts are locked.”

“Johnlocked?” his flatmate teases. A broad smile spreads across Sherlock’s face and he laughs quietly.

“If you like.”

John chuckles with him for a moment. He looks deeply into Sherlock’s sparkling silver eyes and sighs. Guilt wells up in his throat so thick he almost can’t breathe.

“I... haven’t been completely honest with you,” John begins. Sherlock steps closer, shaking his head. He must finish what he has started before he loses the courage. He grasps John’s hands and holds on tightly, meeting his innocent, dark blue eyes.

“I lost you once, John, and then you were taken from me. I can’t bear it again. Just the thought of it, the possibility of watching you waste away…”

“Hey,” John pulls him into a firm embrace, “I’m fine and I’m here. I’m not going anywhere. It doesn’t bear thinking about.” He smiles with a little laugh that releases a short puff of breath into Sherlock’s ear. “You’re stuck with me.”

The two look at one another, allowing some space to creep between their bodies. John’s hands rest comfortably on the detective’s shoulders, answering hands on his hips. John’s brows raise, eyes widening and softening as he looks into Sherlock’s face so full of sentiment felt for John alone.

“I love you, Sherlock. I always will. I always have. I was always dreaming of you,” he sighs again. “Even before we met.”

“I’m sorry I failed you, John. I wanted to protect you from him. From everything.”

“Sherlock,” John shakes his head and locks eyes with the tall man, “I don’t want some kind of superhero. Or a fairy tale romance. I want something real. Something like this.” John watches him closely, swallowing hard and giving his hands a squeeze. “So, I have to ask…how much do you want to risk?”

A long pause hangs between them, heavy in the air.

“Everything,” Sherlock murmurs in a deep voice. He wets his parted lips and whispers. “Marry me, John.”

For a moment, neither of them move. They stay exactly where they are, looking into one another’s eyes. The silence is palpable. 

In a heated scramble, they both lurch forward and clamp their lips together. Their tongues wrap around one another, hungry for the tastes each holds. Sherlock rips open John’s dark red shirt and tears it off the smaller man’s body. John’s lips briefly move to Sherlock’s neck, where he bites him just enough for his flatmate to feel, smiling at the answering gasp. When John returns to Sherlock’s soft, full lips, it feels as though an explosion goes off in his mind. Losing all control, his hands are suddenly filled with his flatmate’s curls. Their mouths are locked and John can think of nothing but Sherlock. Sherlock’s mouth on his, body against his, hands drifting over his ass and grasping his thighs. Scooping him up and off his feet, John quickly wraps his legs around the detective’s slender waist and lets himself be carried to their bedroom.

Sherlock lays John on the bed gently and immediately climbs on top of him, his mouth over John’s as he rises to meet him. Sherlock’s fingers are in John’s sandy hair as he kisses him, letting nothing escape the touch of his lips and tongue. John busies himself with buttons until he can slide the shirt from his flatmate’s shoulders. Shrugging it off, Sherlock presses his body against John. A faint cry slips past his lips at the touch of skin on skin. He devours John’s mouth again, as well as every part of him within reach.

Biting at lips and licking into his mouth, John’s hands are roving in those dark curls again. Sherlock presses harder against his body, feeling him hard in his jeans. Sherlock pulls back suddenly, staring down at John predatorily. His fingers find John’s flies and open them. He carefully pulls off his jeans as John kicks off his shoes, and repeats the motion slowly with John’s pants. Agonizingly slowly.

As soon as they are off his ankles, John pushes Sherlock’s shoulders and follows until they are sitting up, the detective straddling his lap. He fixes Sherlock with smoldering eyes and pauses. The world slows around them as they share this one heated look that reveals everything to the other. Thoughts, feelings, hopes. Their faces close together, they share a breath, a life, between their panting lips.

Time starts again as quickly as it stopped. Two pairs of hands scrabble at Sherlock’s trousers and pants until both fall to the floor. Sherlock slowly pushes John onto his back and then dives down, taking John’s cock in his mouth. While his tongue twirls around John, his long fingers burrow under the man’s delicious ass and pull him close. Sherlock soon gets into a quick rhythm of rocking John’s hips and sucking hard, with short breaks to fondle with his tongue. A few glorious minutes pass with John’s hands tangled in Sherlock’s hair, curses and the detective’s name spilling from his lips. Sherlock increases the pace and soon feels John’s muscles tightening, his body jumping with pleasure involuntarily. Knowing his lover is close to the edge of bliss, Sherlock swallows him down as far as he can comfortably and brushes a fingertip ever so lightly between his cheeks.

Jerking back into the mattress, John cries out as he comes hard. Sherlock grins to himself while he swallows, fully aware that the force of the orgasm took his mate completely by surprise. He watches from beneath long lashes as John writhes in his clutches, letting him slip out of his mouth only when John’s body sinks limply into the duvet.

Looking very smug and extremely satisfied with himself, Sherlock inches back up John’s body and kisses him full on the mouth. The doctor wraps his arms around the detective and rolls them onto their sides as the kiss goes on and on. Long, warm fingers slide around his waist and meet at the small of his back. Their lips part, breathing heavily in unison.

“Jesus fucking Christ, Sherlock. Promise me you’ll do that again and for the rest of our fucking lives.”

Sherlock brushes the hair from John’s forehead and smirks. “There’s that foul mouth again. We really must do something about that.”

“I’ll give you something to do with it.” John crashes their mouths together and holds his detective tightly as he rolls onto his own back, bringing that lithe body with him. He teases Sherlock’s salty tongue with his own and licks inside his mouth enthusiastically. When they both have to stop to breathe, John meets Sherlock’s eyes, pupils blown wide, hungry and full of want. “I want you inside me.”

Concern instantly washes over Sherlock’s face, even as John bites at his lower lip playfully. Sucking that lip in between his own, John kisses him soundly and gazes up into that angular, completely gorgeous face. Sherlock emerges from the kisses painfully aroused, but he cannot ignore his concerns and the great, red warning that flashes in his mind.

“John,” trying not to imagine that mouth wide open in ecstasy just moments ago. “John, I’m not sure this is a good idea. If this is too soon and you’re not ready. If you believe I expect it of you…”

“Sherlock,” John purrs, cupping those cheekbones and fixing his detective with adoring eyes. “Yesssss. I’m sure. I’m ready. I want you. Please. I love you.”

Sherlock licks his lips and studies John for any sign of apprehension or doubt. He sees nothing, only excited desire and...peace...trust. Sherlock lets out a deep breath, his face completely open. If they’re going to try this, he has to makes sure John is as comfortable as possible and that John knows he can trust him always. Though he still feels uneasy, Sherlock leans down and presses his lips against John’s gently. Soon they are kissing in earnest and Sherlock is carefully and slowly preparing John with lubed fingers. He has never in his life been more hesitant and sensitive with a lover. Meanwhile, John kisses and mouths at him enthusiastically, moaning and gasping, unable to keep his hands off his flatmate. When Sherlock pulls his fingers from John slowly, their eyes meet, both poised and ready. Again, Sherlock hesitates.

“Are you quite certain?” his voice is low, so quiet it is almost hidden by their very breaths. John stares deeply into Sherlock’s silver eyes, his own sparking with fire.

“Do it. Now.”

Sherlock bites his lip and nods. A bead of sweat trickles down from his temple and John wipes it away. He kisses Sherlock once more and gives him an encouraging nod, his full of trust and longing. Sherlock inhales deeply, lines himself up, and slowly begins to press in. John gasps, his eyes widening, pupils growing until they nearly obscure the blue completely. He clutches Sherlock’s shoulders and closes his eyes, pleasure and anticipation on his face. Sherlock presses in a little more, testing the waters as he goes. A smile curls at the corners of John’s mouth.

Gauging the reaction, Sherlock goes deeper. His body shudders as he starts rocking. His eyes slip closed and a door in his mind palace opens. John is there, smiling at him. He’s happy and calm. Leaning against a wall and light shining on his hair, making it shine like gold. His white button-down barely hiding his red pants. Sherlock smiles in his mind palace and in reality, where he opens his eyes to look at John and whisper quiet praises, but his expression changes the instant he lays eyes upon John’s countenance. The pleasure has vanished, replaced by deep emotional pain. The anticipation is now a mix of rage and terror. Sherlock watches in horror as John fights back tears even behind closed eyes.

“NO!!!” John screams suddenly. “No! GOD, NO!!”

Sherlock pulls out quickly and just dodges the fist that would have slammed into his jaw. Taking advantage of his flatmate’s awkward position, John suddenly flips him onto his back and raises his fist to swing again. Sherlock’s hands shoot upward to defend incoming blows and he cries out loudly, hoping to get through to John before the onslaught.

“John, no! It’s Sherlock! It’s me, please!” 

John hesitates at the sound of his voice. Sherlock almost sees a gleam of recognition in his blue eyes, but it is quickly replaced with fury. John swings and lands a solid punch, bloodying that angular nose.

“I HATE YOU!” John screams. “ **I HATE YOU!”** He strikes out again just as Sherlock gets a hold of his wrist to skew his aim.

“JOHN, STOP! I’M NOT MORIARTY!”

Finally, the deep and panicked baritone breaks through John’s blind fury and he seems to truly see Sherlock again. The room is suddenly, painfully silent. John’s face crumbles into regret as he takes in his friend’s bloody face. He reaches for it, but stops with his fingers hovering just over Sherlock’s high cheekbone. The detective cannot disguise his fear. John’s whole body appears to sag and he scrambles away from Sherlock’s, not stopping until he nearly falls off the bed.

“Oh, god, I’m sorry! I’m so sorry,” his words are full of pain. Sherlock hastily wipes his nose with the back of his hand as he sits up and looks at John. He’s going to run. Sherlock knows John is going to run. He can see it in John’s eyes, on his face full of regret and fear. “Oh, god. What have I… I can’t stay here. I can’t hurt you. Never again.”

Sherlock jumps up and clamps a hand around John’s wrist, holding him in place. John flexes his bicep and tries to pull away, anger blooming on his face.

“No!” Sherlock says fiercely, breathing hard. “You can’t run away. You started to heal when you decided to face it and that’s exactly what you have to do now. Face it, John. Face him.”

He moves in closer and gently cups John’s face with one hand. The smaller man flinches minutely at the touch, but doesn’t move away.

“It wasn’t your fault. John, look at me. Please.” Sighing, he reluctantly meets his flatmate’s silver eyes. “It was too soon. And that’s all right. You are trying to cope with a major trauma.”

“But, Sherlock…” John’s voice is raw and it eventually breaks as his speaks. “I... I wanted you, Sherlock. I wanted you so badly and look what happened. I can’t control it. I can’t control myself. I want to connect with you again, so much and in every way. EVERY way. I just… I want everything to be normal.”

“We are connected, John,” Sherlock assures him in a soft voice, stroking a wet cheek with his thumb. “No one can break the bond we share. He tried, but he will never succeed.”

“I love you,” John says after a moment, a tear betraying him and slipping from his eye. “But what if I…he’s in my head. What if we can never be together again? Will that break the bond?” John pauses and asks in a small voice. “For you?”

“Shh,” the detective wipes the droplet away. “ **Nothing** will break it.” He lowers a hand to take one of John’s and pulls it to his own chest, covering it with the other over his heart. He searches John’s face with soft eyes. “My heart beats because yours beats. We are one. We’ll be all right, John. We just tried to move too quickly. We’ll work through it. Together.”

John is completely taken aback. The eyes that were so full of pain and fear are now shining brightly with tears and surprise, and hope. He looks at Sherlock in quiet amazement. 

“I don’t deserve you.”

“That, John Watson, is absurd,” Sherlock replies haughtily. His mouth quirks up and he kisses John’s answering smile more tenderly than any other they have ever shared. A wave of comfort floods over the doctor and he closes his eyes, feeling nothing but Sherlock’s heartbeat beneath his hand and his own beating in time with it. John opens his eyes slowly as their lips part. 

“I love you,” he whispers.

“And I, you,” Sherlock breathes, kissing John again and smiling. “Fancy a cuddle?”

“Yes, please.”

Sherlock rises and pads into the ensuite for a damp flannel to clean his face. His nose stopped bleeding shortly after it began, but there is a small laceration across its bridge that is framed with a developing bruise. He should put ice on it, but is certain that lying next to John on the bed with ice on his face will only add insult to injury. Instead, Sherlock cleans up enough to make himself presentable and goes back to the bed. John is sitting on it with his legs up, watching his detective closely. The corners of Sherlock’s mouth curve up and he sits slowly next to his doctor. He allows John to look over his face and give his approval. He suggests ice and Sherlock shakes his head. For once, John gives in. 

With that sorted, they both lie down, facing one another. Sherlock reaches down and pulls the covers around them snugly. The two men wrap up in one another’s arms and settle in for the night. John sighs as he buries his nose where Sherlock’s shoulder meets his long neck, and closes his eyes. Safe. Safe is the word that floats through his mind. He feels safe and loved…understood. He tightens his arms around his detective and smiles when he feels Sherlock do the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was a fun chapter to write. I thoroughly enjoyed making Greg get a little more drunk with each shot. He's still making sense, but his words start to be just a bit out of order and make a little less sense. Picturing Rupert this way gave me the giggles every time. I also loved writing the more touching dialogue in the latter half. I know romance may not be some people's cup of tea, but I love it, especially between these two idiots. So precious.
> 
> Sooo... Only one chapter left. Will there be another part? Will all of us need to keep persisting? If you'll notice with me for just a moment. Just about every character in this story has to do that on some level.  
> Sherlock to be with John, to help him heal, to finally get Moriarty.  
> John to be with Sherlock, to work himself back to as normal as he can be, also to finally get Moriarty.  
> (And so many more for both of them too.)  
> Mycroft to protect Sherlock (and John?), (to keep them apart?), to get Moriarty.  
> Molly to regain Sherlock's trust and friendship.  
> Greg to help his friends as much as he can, to do his job and get Moriarty.  
> (Why do so many of the characters want to get Moriarty and put him in the ground? Ha. Any wonder.)  
> Moriarty to finally have John, possess John, and keep John.  
> (You know he isn't finished.)
> 
> What does the last chapter hold???  
> I promise to try and post it soon.  
> Thank you all for sticking with me and, hopefully, to stay with me (if another part is in store). I love you all. Knowing this story brings each and every one of you joy, sorrow, and love is the best feeling ever. I almost didn't post this story, but I am so very glad I did.  
> Much love, Jane


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's here! The last chapter. AHHH!  
> No spoilers, but I will say warm fuzzies.

Sherlock opens his eyes the next morning to find they have the uncanny desire to explode under the pressure of the throbbing headache behind them. He groans and turns his head to find that John is missing. Fearing the worst, he pushes himself up quickly with his arms only to fall on his back again immediately. He presses his hands to his eyes to keep them from bursting out of his skull.

“God, why did I do all those shots?” he twitches his head to the left at the sound of footsteps approaching.

“Good morning,” John greets him quietly. Sherlock moves his hands away from his eyes and turns his head. He winces instantly at the movement and sighs heavily. John smiles and climbs onto the bed, offering two white pills in one hand and a glass of water in the other. “I brought you something for the headache.”

“Why don’t you have one?” Sherlock demands petulantly.

“You didn’t drink as much water when we came home,” John shrugs. Sherlock rolls his eyes, an act that only increases the throbbing. He sits up slowly, groaning and grimacing all the way, and takes the pills. Handing the glass back to John, Sherlock eases onto his back and closes his dull silver eyes. John places the glass on the headboard table and snuggles up next to the taller man, basking in his warmth. He really is a space heater. An absurdly tall and very sexy space heater.

“You’ll feel better soon enough,” he runs a finger lightly along the new bruise on Sherlock’s face. “Look, I’m sorry about last night. You were right. It was too soon to try something like that.”

“You’ve nothing to apologize for, John,” the detective begins, turning carefully onto his side.

“Please, let me finish,” John replies tenderly, touching Sherlock’s cheekbone. Sherlock closes his mouth with a click and gives John a nod. The doctor moves his hands to rest on Sherlock’s chest, clears his throat, and focuses on a spot just below Sherlock’s chin. “That was…” swallowing hard, “what he did. A lot. What he loved to do.”

Sherlock touches John’s face with gentle fingertips. Dark blue eyes meet his own. Sherlock tries to send all of the comfort, encouragement, and affection he can muster from his own body to John’s through every point of contact. John wets his lips and continues in a shaky voice.

“He tried oral sex too, but it didn’t really work. I couldn’t…” he pauses to choose his next words tactfully and fails, “get it up. He’d get mad, jerk off, and come all over m…” He closes his eyes at the memories and shakes his head. “God, Sherlock, being with him was so awful.”

“You don’t have to talk about it,” he murmurs, cupping John’s cheek. “You’ve been through enough and you don’t owe me anything.”

“I want to talk about it, Sherlock, I do. It helps me…deal with everything. Little by little,” John sighs sadly, but his eyes are clear. “I want this to be over, Sherlock. I never want to think of it again, but the only way to be done is to face it.”

“You are truly the bravest and wisest man I have ever known.”

“Now, I know  **that** can’t be true,” John huffs a laugh. “ You grew up with Mycroft.” Sherlock bursts out laughing and John joins him readily. “Really though, I’m making this all up as I go. And Ella has helped a lot, even though I haven’t really been able to tell her what happened. She says that’s okay for now,” he shrugs. “But with you, I hate you not knowing as much as I hate telling you. It feels like I have all these secrets and lies. I don’t want him putting walls between us.”

“Then I shall listen whenever you require me to. I only hope I can help.”

“You do. You always do.” John smiles softly and kisses him. It is a kiss of deep love and longing, and it takes Sherlock’s breath away. When their lips part, he looks into John’s eyes with intense emotion. It is like nothing he has ever felt before and it nearly overwhelms him. He bites at his lip and searches John’s face.

“I will always love you. Always support you. You don’t have to worry about me or about sex. We will take things at whatever pace is best for you. We are in this together, John.”

John cannot speak. This incredible man has robbed him of words, of coherent thought. He leans in again and presses his lips gently to his detective’s. Sherlock’s eyes slide closed as John’s tongue tickles at his cupid’s bow. The detective sighs as he begins melting against his doctor. John pulls back after a moment that was far too short in Sherlock’s opinion, thank you very much, and smiles sweetly.

“Will you get up with me?”

“Is that some kind of code?” Sherlock raises a brow.

“What?”

“We did just agree to take things slowly, did we not?”

“I know. Oh, no. No, I mean I have to get out of bed now. I’m working today.”

“Ah,” Sherlock nods once, then feeling playful. “And what will I do all day on my own?”

He wraps his arms around John’s smaller body and holds him close. John raises his brows and smiles.

“You’re very creative. I’m sure you’ll come up with some experiment.”

“Mm,” he wears a thoughtful expression. “On the contrary, I don’t think I can distract myself from thinking of you. Your lips,” he kisses his doctor gently, “your neck,” dipping his head to kiss John’s pulse point, “your chest,” mouthing down, “a very broad chest too. Firm with muscle.”

“All right, all right,” John tries to squirm away, laughing. “As much as I’d love to stay here and let you worship my body, I have patients to see.” Sherlock’s mobile sounds. “And you have a case to solve.”

Sherlock grumbles as John wiggles out of his grasp and walks to the ensuite. He plucks his mobile from the night stand and watches John saunter out of the room before pressing the phone to his ear.

“Traitor.”

“What?” comes Greg’s voice.

“Never mind. You have a case?”

“Yep, a murder. Text you the address.”

“Good. Laters.” Sherlock ends the call and rises from the bed gracefully. The shower is on and the room is steamy by the time he enters. After answering the call of nature, he steps behind the curtain and stops at the sight that greets him. John, naked under the hot spray with his back turned, hands rubbing frothy soap into his golden hair. Sherlock looks him up and down approvingly, silver eyes coming to rest on the marred skin of his shoulder, the entrance wound from his time as Captain Watson.

It doesn’t share the same starburst features as the scar on his chest. It looks more like a small clump of soil that was torn from the landscape by an explosion and then replaced as carefully as it could be, but never to be quite the same as the rest of the land around it. Although it hasn’t been all that long since John sustained the injury, this one on his back is very indistinct. Almost as if the bumps had been sanded away like those on a piece of wood, leaving only their ghosts behind. Sherlock swallows around the lump in his throat. The pain must have been devastating.

“If you’re coming in, close the curtain. I’m freezing over here.”

Realizing how distracted he had become, Sherlock closes out the cooler air from the rest of the room. John starts rinsing his hair. He opens his eyes when he’s finished and flashes Sherlock a smile before turning back to the spray of water raining down. He squirts some body wash into a flannel and begins lathering up when he feels two hands at his waist, a firm body against his own back. John’s eyes slip closed and he leans back into the man behind. He stops spreading soap and places his hands over Sherlock’s. The taller man lowers his head, tucking it into John’s neck where it meets his shoulder, their cheeks touching. Sherlock inhales deeply and holds his doctor close. Neither of them knows how long they stay this way, only that the water begins to cool before they stop. They both wash quickly before it goes completely cold, dry off, and get dressed.

When the two men emerge from their bedroom, there is no time for tea or toast. John smiles at his love, pecks his lips, and trots down the stairs to leave. Sherlock is not far behind, glancing at his mobile and hailing a cab.

***

“Jason Standish, 45, ex-military, found early this morning by a friend who worried because he didn’t show for work yesterday.”

Sherlock is squatting next to the battered and tortured body. His home is in one of the nicer parts of London, which means the fenced in gardens put more space between him and his neighbors to drown out screams. The man also spent much of the beating with a scarf in his mouth, now stained with his own blood.

“The neighbors heard nothing,” Sherlock states.

“Nope. Whoever it was is good at not attracting attention. None of them remember noticing anything strange or any people they didn’t know. Anderson says he’s been dead for no more than five hours.” Sherlock hums in agreement. “How long do you think he was tortured?”

“Hours. Judging by the age span of his injuries, at least 24 hours.” He looks closely at an older head laceration. “His attacker was here when he arrived home two days ago. Subdued him with this blow to the head and tied him here. The variety of method is vast. Standish was meant to suffer terribly without danger of death. The rest of the house is untouched?”

“Yep. It was all done here, but it does look like his bed was slept in,” Greg adds in a leery voice. He watches as Sherlock very carefully examines the broken body. “Donovan’s interviewing the coworker about enemies, secrets at work. This guy is a nurse and not even at a place that would get big name clients who want to be anonymous. I mean, it’s possible somebody stole something or thinks Standish knew something and wanted to keep him quiet, but then why torture him? Why not just kill him?”

“Indeed. Such a person would remove the threat, not spend 36 hours with him and risk being caught. A killer with such a motive would also fail to plan appropriately. It would be more off the cuff. Standish surely would have cried out and alerted the neighbors. This is the work of someone who knew exactly how to hit and where. Someone who has tortured before,” Sherlock tilts his head for a closer look at a slash across the man’s throat, a precision cut, deep enough to terrify but too shallow to kill or even bleed out slowly. “An expert at using pain to instill fear. One who knows the human body well enough to know when to stop so death doesn’t come prematurely.”

“Like a doctor?”

“Possibly.”

“Christ. Maybe it was someone from the clinic,” Greg runs a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “I just can’t imagine what this man could possibly know that would justify all this. And why not just tell the killer? Why make it drag on for hours?”

“The killer wanted to know something Standish cared deeply about. Or someone. A friend or family,” Sherlock answers, rising to his full height and looking around the room. Greg frowns deeply as the detective continues. “He’s single, has no family. The only photographs here are of an older couple. Obviously his parents and dead already. He’s fiercely loyal. His military experience and the fact that he still has photos of his parents displayed prominently exhibit that. Standish was protecting a friend, probably someone he served with. Find out who his friends are, Lestrade. One of them is in danger.”

“Right. You’ll be at Bart’s with Molly later?”

“Of course.”

“Be nice,” Greg warns. Sherlock huffs an angry breath.

“Oh, for god sake. You’re as bad as bloody Mycroft.”

***

The darkness of the evening sky is just beginning to fall on the streets of London as Sherlock stares out the window of 221B. With his violin tucked under his chin and his bow swaying back and forth over its strings, he considers the Standish case. He spent his day with Molly, and then with Greg and Sally. Standish suffered greatly for his silence and would only have been allowed to die if he had finally given up the information. What Sally found on his friends and coworkers revealed nothing. No one is likely to be a target for someone of this caliber.

As Sherlock plays, so deep in his mind palace, not even listening to the music he is playing, he almost doesn’t hear the ring of his mobile. Expecting it to be John, he lowers his instrument and walks to where it lay on his desk. Lestrade. Sherlock swaps his violin for the phone, hearing the door to the flat open as he answers. 

“You have uncovered someone?” he asks as John walks past the doorway with a paper bag in each hand.

“Kept yourself entertained, I see. I have takeaway. Mediterranean,” he smiles. Sherlock glances in John’s direction just in time to see him drop out of sight. When Greg speaks, he sounds wrecked and exhausted.

“Is John with you?”

“What? Yes, he just walked in. Have you found something? Shall we meet you?”

“I was just talking with the police chief in Aldershot. Hampshire.”

“A friend of Standish?”

“No,” Greg pauses for an uneasy silence. “Harriet Watson lives there.”

“John’s sister?”

“She’s dead, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s eyes blink wide in shock. He wants to say something, to ask Greg what the fuck he’s talking about, but he can’t form the words. John and his sister have not spoken in years, long before he and Sherlock met, but he knows John still cares for her a great deal.

“She was murdered, Sherlock. Tortured in her home for days before she was found. She was supposed to be on holiday, so no one came looking. She’s been dead four days.”

“Did you say Standish?” Sherlock jumps at the sound and stares at John, who now stands before him. He holds up a finger to indicate he will only be a moment and listens quietly while Greg continues quickly and ends the call.

“You know someone called Standish?” he asks hesitantly, turning to face John slowly. John looks at him with an open expression.

“Sure, Jason Standish. I went to University with him. He was a couple years ahead of me, training to be a nurse. Ran into him in Afghanistan a few times. Turned out we both enlisted. He helped patch up my shoulder. Lives here in London.”

“You see him now?”

“Every so often. Less since I met you. He came back shortly after I got on my feet again. We reconnected. He’s the one who finally convinced me to see a therapist,” John frowns, suddenly realizing that if Sherlock and Greg know of Standish something is likely wrong. “How do you know him?”

“He’s my case. He’s been murdered.”

“What? Why?” John’s eyes go wide. He looks at Sherlock in stunned silence. “Why would anyone…”

“John,” he steps closer to John and looks at him steadily with soft eyes. Concern paints his face and he swallows hard. John stares back expectantly, worry growing by the second. “It’s Harry.”

“Harry?” John blinks, completely bewildered.

“She’s...she’s been…” Sherlock’s voice breaks and his frustration shows. He has told hundreds of people a loved one is dead. Why is this any different?

The answer is simple. Everything is different with John. Better. Even in this anguish.

Reading his detective’s face like a book, John’s shoulders drop and his face goes ashen. His lips part, eyes already filling.

“No. No.” The doctor crumples right before Sherlock’s eyes. The taller man pulls him into his arms and rests his chin on John’s head. John gasps out a sob and clutches at his flatmate. When he finally speaks, his voice is quiet and pained. “Why? How?”

“Now may not be the best time,” he begins in a soft voice.

“What happened to her, Sherlock?!” John’s words are harsh and demanding. He pulls away from Sherlock to look him in the eye. His cheeks are wet, but his face is fierce and angry. Knowing he has no choice but to tell his friend all he knows, Sherlock wets his lips and holds tightly onto John’s arms.

“She was found in her home in Aldershot. She was murdered.”

“Oh, god.” He lets his head fall forward to rest on Sherlock’s shoulder. The detective closes his arms around John carefully, already feeling his shirt wet with tears. John’s body trembles under the weight of his sorrow.

“The police there spoke with Lestrade.”

“Just, no. I can’t,“ John is sobbing openly now. “I can’t now. I just… please.”

Sherlock holds him closer, bending to kiss John’s hair. The doctor is shaking. Sherlock doesn’t bother with platitudes. Words like ‘It’s okay’ or ‘You’ll be all right’ are meaningless and he is unaccustomed to caring how people feel. But John isn’t people. John is his life, his love, his very humanity, and his desire to comfort this man in his arms is stronger than any force he has felt in his life. Sherlock raises his hand up to John’s nape, gently encouraging him to fully bury his face in Sherlock’s broad shoulder.

“I’m here,” he whispers. “I’m here for you always. That, I promise you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DA DA DAAAAAA!  
> WTF, JANE?!? WHERE THE HELL DID THAT COME FROM?? I can hear you all asking it. The answer is that I have woven a great tapestry that comes to life in this story and it isn't over yet. (I hope you are all as excited as I.) How can I call something Persistence and cut it off at three parts? No, no, my friends. The story goes on. And because I love to do this (and because it seems very appropriate after this chapter)...
> 
> Will John and Sherlock ever get married??  
> Why does John never answer when Sherlock asks him? (I mean, except that one time and it totally makes sense why he said no.)  
> Will John really be okay again or has Moriarty gotten into his head permanently?  
> Is Moriarty really coming for John now or just screwing with him some more?  
> As my very own PatPrecieux pointed out, how the hell does Moriarty always seem to know where John is?  
> Who would kill Harry and why? Ditto for Standish and what does it have to do with John?  
> Gah! So many questions and more!! 
> 
> Feel strongly that I missed an essential question here? Feel free to post and let us all know what it is. I've always believed in expression. Express, not repress. Repression festers and leads to rotting of the soul. No good, no good. One day will find you smoking at a cafe and saying, "My ass is twitching. You people make my ass twitch."
> 
> There. That's my philosophy lesson for the day. I also want to add that I'm already editing Part 4 and it'll be coming up soon. YAY! I also, also want to thank you all again for your love and support. Writing is such a joy for me and I am delighted to bring joy to others. I love you all. I also, also, also (I promise this is the last one) want to mention a snippet from a comment written by my one and only Sherly. "Moriarty is a shit. Fuck him! He is a total dick." Sherly, HE SO IS!! I'm right there with ya. He needs his comeuppance, damn it, and NOW. This message tickled me to the core. Love you.
> 
> Love you all and see you again soon. (Damn, I'm getting wordy.)  
> Jane


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